


the shortest distance between two points (is the line from me to you)

by decideophobia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Wedding, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You—I—” Stiles splutters for a second, scrutinizing Derek’s face. He huffs in frustration. “I take it all back. You haven’t changed at all, you’re still acting like a petulant ten-year-old who unleashes his bad mood on others. You know, all Unleash the Derek style.”</p><p>“‘Unleash the Derek’?” Derek asks, dubiously.</p><p>“Yeah,” Stiles nods, gazing out the window again. “You know, the thing where you dump your bad mood on others, pour your suffocating attitude over everyone around you, twist everything that is said to you into some sort of—insult or whatever. It’s what I used to call it back in high school.”</p><p>“Sometimes I get the feeling you were dropped on your head an awful lot as a child,” Derek says appraisingly, eyebrows furrowed.</p><p>Stiles snorts. “Yeah, right back at you.”</p><p>Derek’s lips quirk in amusement, he arches his eyebrows. “I was, actually. But unlike you I regained full health.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shortest distance between two points (is the line from me to you)

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's finally done.  
> This fic was supposed to be a cute, little one and the turned into this monster and I have absolutely no explanation how that happened. I'm sorry in advance. It was inspired by a picture that went around tumblr, of Dylan O'Brien in that one New Girl episode.  
> I want to thank [Chris](http://youneedmetosurvive.tumblr.com/), [Andrea](regenorakel.tumblr.com/) and [Becka](http://mydearsourwolf.tumblr.com/) for their constant support and help. Chris was very patient with my whining during writing, so thanks dude, you're awesome. He also bullied me into writing smut, so there you go.  
> Special thanks also to [Brii](http://haagendazstilinski.tumblr.com/) for her help with the food, and [Jessy](http://hoechlined.tumblr.com/), because she supplied me with an idea; and [Christine](http://silvarbelle.tumblr.com/) for reading over the best man speech. I also want to thank everybody who kept asking so lovely about the progress of the fic. 
> 
> You can take a look at Allison's wedding gown [here](http://www.efox-shop.com/elegantes-brautkleid-aus-chiffon-v-kragen-a-linie-halb-auml-rmel-lange-schleppe-perlen-p-271343).

When Stiles had left Beacon Hills, he never intended to not come back. It just happened. His first year of college was eventful and fun, and by the time Thanksgiving came around he had so much work to do, he just didn’t manage to cram in some time to go home. He’d spend the evening on Skype, though, talking to his father. It had been weird, not being with him over Thanksgiving; looking at him at the screen and juggling the call, his take-out food and the essay that was due a couple of days later.

Stiles had promised to come home over Christmas but then there was heavy snowfall, and his dad told him to save on gas and money; said it was too dangerous to drive in that weather conditions, so Stiles had stayed in his dorm. Scott had been pretty bummed out about it, so they stayed all day on Skype on Christmas Day; sometimes going an hour without even talking but still it had been nice. Plus, it helped Stiles not feeling too weird about being alone in his dorm room over Christmas and not at home with his dad and his friends.

After that, it kind of became a thing. Stiles can’t even recall how exactly he slipped into this but he’s grown used to it: staying at college, doing his work, skyping with his father and his friends, and occasionally researching something for Scott.

He kept in touch with Scott—because it’s, like, physically impossible for the two of them to stay apart completely. Chats with Allison became a regular thing, too, and at some point, in the middle of the night, Lydia had called him to talk about something Stiles can’t remember anymore as he was somewhat comatose at that point. After that, they kept having conversations either via Skype or on the phone, whichever Lydia preferred at the time.

Scott keeps Stiles mostly up-to-date about pack business and the supernatural stuff that goes down in Beacon Hills, although there wasn’t anything as disastrous as the Alpha pack after they had left. At first, Stiles had been edgy about it, being away from the crazy things that happened; not being able to help but after a while—when nothing severe happened—he calmed down, relaxed. Scott became Alpha shortly after the Alpha pack had arrived in Beacon Hills, and it had taken him some time to adjust, to figure out how to handle it. It had been a whole different thing dealing with Derek and Scott being two Alphas on the same territory but they’ve worked it out pretty well, to Stiles’ surprise.

So, after things grew quiet in his hometown, Stiles wasn’t as anxious about not going back as he was before. It stopped feeling weird not having been there for such a long time after a while, and Stiles stopped thinking about it.

Until Scott called him one night, late—and Stiles was sleep-deprived—with so much excitement in his voice that Stiles could practically see him dancing around and vibrating out of his skin.

“She said yes! Stiles, she said yes.”

Stiles scrubbed his eyes but he smiled sleepily. “Congrats, buddy. It’s not a surprise she said yes, though.”

“Be my best man,” Scott said, and it was neither a question nor a request but still somehow managed to convey both. “You’re my best man.”

“Guess I can’t say no to that,” Stiles answered with a dramatic sigh but happy still, because his best friend was going to get married, and Stiles was going to be his best man. “Count me in.”

It’s how he ends up on a plane on his way to Beacon Hills, jittery, excited and overall weird. He tries not to think about how much time’s passed since he’s been home last; how much stuff he missed or the people he hasn’t seen and talked to ever since he’d left. Stiles scrubs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. It’s not like he’s meeting strangers; these are people he knows, no big deal. Still, he can’t seem to relax.

There’s a familiar figure waiting for him at the airport when he gets off the plane, and Stiles barks out a quiet laugh.

“Hurry up, I don’t have all day,” Jackson snaps at him when Stiles is close enough to hear. He’s a little bit surprised that Jackson is the one to pick him up, and it’s evident that he’s not happy about being on Stiles-duty.

“Can’t shake the kanima, huh?”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Still spewing venom left and right,” Stiles replies casually, and Jackson glowers at him.

“Feel free to walk all the way to Beacon Hills,” Jackson says as he takes Stiles’ luggage and shoves it into the trunk of his Porsche.

“I don’t think Scott would be happy if you left me here.”

“I don’t answer to Scott.”

“What would Allison say if you sabotaged her wedding?”

Jackson rolls his eyes in annoyance as he motions at Stiles to get into the car. “The wedding isn’t until the day after tomorrow, so you can still make it if you walk fast.”

“You’re so hilarious,” Stiles comments dryly. He can’t help but smirk a little. At least he can still talk to Jackson, and it feels like he’s never been gone.

“I’m dead serious,” Jackson corrects and starts the car.

“Yet, here I am. In your show-off of a car.”

“Shut up or I’ll cut your seat belt and drive the car into a tree.”

“You wouldn’t do that to your car.”

“Watch me.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at Jackson. His poker face is impeccable, Stiles has to admit that—even though he doesn’t like it—and it’s driving him nuts. Jackson has probably a whole bunch of Porsches hidden in some depot. Stiles wouldn’t put it past him. He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his pants and quickly shoots his dad a message that’s he’s on his way home.

He clears his throat. “So,” he starts watching Jackson purse his lips. “How’s life?”

Jackson says, “Drop it,” and looks a little bit like he’s sending out prayers hoping that Stiles listens. It’s been too long, though, and Stiles has actually missed this, missed goading Jackson, and his sarcastic remarks. So instead of complying, Stiles starts talking about his college life, and everything else that comes to his mind; asks about the wedding preparations (for which Jackson has been present because Lydia dragged him there and made him _do_ things).

There is one moment when the car swerves dangerously making Stiles yelp in fear. He still catches the smug expression on Jackson’s face and decides that shutting up is a go now. Lydia calls three times to tell Jackson _what_ he’s supposed to pick up some stuff for the wedding, keeps adding things for him to do, and only greets Stiles in passing after Stiles throws in a, “Hey, Lydia”.

“Stiles can pick up—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Lydia snaps at him through the speaker. “He’s home for the first time in years and he’s just landed, give him a break.”

“His break was several years long,” Jackson mutters under his breath.

“Just drop him off at his house and come here, we still need your help with the decorations,” she says dismissively and adds, “Hurry up,” before she hangs up.

“You’re in great demand for decorations, huh?” Stiles teases. The surly look Jackson bestows on him is probably meant to make Stiles shut up and not make him grin even wider.

Jackson drops him off in front of his dad’s house and then makes a dramatic exit with his Porsche, squealing tires and all. Stiles shakes his head inwardly before he grabs his suitcase and goes inside. His dad’s not home yet but he texted earlier and said he’d be home as soon as possible.

The house doesn’t look different at all. It’s like he never left but rather just came back home from another day at school. It’s both weird and comforting. Stiles pokes around the kitchen a bit and finds no junk food at all which is a little bit suspicious, because he doesn’t quite buy that his father doesn’t sneak in a portion of curly fries or two, or any kind of that stuff really.

He takes his luggage and pads upstairs to his bedroom, eyes flitting over the framed pictures along the staircase. There’s a new one between the old and familiar photographs; it’s the one Stiles sent his dad from college, and it was taken when he had been out with friends, chilling and barbecuing. He feels a sudden pang of guilt, because he can’t even remember the last time he had barbeque with his dad or his friends—and he hates it. He hates that he has no memory of the last time he had done so.

Stiles pushes open the door to his room, feeling like he’s seventeen again. There’s still his huge bulletin board he put up when junior year started that he used to track every supernatural happening in Beacon Hills. It’s empty now, no trace of anything suspicious, no sign of how obsessed Stiles had been with his work then; solving riddles and supernatural crime stuff, keeping track of the Alpha pack.

He runs his hand over the desk and traces his fingers over little curbs and dents trying to remember where they came from and how it happened. Stiles takes another look around and it still feels the same, like no time has passed at all. Even though he didn’t see Jackson in years it’s been simple to go back to old routine, the easy bickering. He wonders if it’s going to be the same with all the others. Dropping down on the bed, Stiles covers his eyes with his forearm and both dreads and looks forward to seeing everyone again.

Stiles pulls his phone out of the pocket of his pants and checks for a message from his dad that says he’s going to be home soon. Smiling, Stiles drops the cell on his bed and gets up to go downstairs and raid the fridge. Now that he’s home again he might as well make some lunch—or dinner. Whatever. He’s not picky, he’s just hungry.

While he’s at it, he wonders if he should shoot Scott a text but Scott messaged him earlier and said he was busy with wedding preparations and would drop by as soon as he had time. Stiles is excited to see his best friend again, would love to see him right away, but he also doesn’t want to disturb his plans—even though Stiles would love to be involved and see what Scott and Allison have planned for the ceremony and the reception.

Stiles dials Lydia on a whim. “Do you need help with anything?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.

“You’re Scott’s best man. I need you to look good on the wedding day,” she answers shortly. Stiles can hear voices and general business in the background.

“Are you implying that I don’t look good on any other day?”

Lydia _tsk_ s at him. “Right now I don’t need you for anything but I’m pretty sure there will be plenty of things left for tomorrow. As for today, Jackson, Isaac, Boyd and Derek got it covered.”

“Okay,” Stiles says stirring the noodles boiling in the water.

“Allison wants to speak to you though,” Lydia informs him and adds, “Hang on.”

There’s a little rustling from the other side of the line and Stiles hears Allison thanking Lydia.

“Stiles,” Allison greets, smile clear in her voice. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Stiles can’t help but smile too. “How are you holding up?”

Laughing, Allison replies, “Oh, I’m fine. Can you believe it, though? The wedding is in two days.”

“Are you getting nervous?”

“Who, me?” Allison snorts. “Are you kidding?”

Stiles laughs. It’s no surprise how sure she is about the wedding, about marrying Scott, and Stiles is so damn happy for the two of them.

“Well, seeing as you’re so cool about it, I’m sure Scott is freaking out for both of you.”

“Did he call you?” Allison asks chuckling. “I’m sure you’d be his first call if he was freaking out. No but seriously, I think Scott is pretty laid back about it. We have our parents and Lydia to freak out for us, it works pretty well.”

“I guess that’s a testament to your relationship and how sure you are about it, huh?” Stiles wonders, and he can’t help but think it’s something he’d like to have himself.

“I’ve never been so sure about something as I am about this,” Allison admits, quiet and serious. “I’d like to show you something. Can you come over?”

“Uh yeah,” Stiles says. “I’ll be right there.”

“Great, thank you,” she replies. “See you in a few.”

Stiles hangs up, pockets his phone and finishes cooking the food. He eats quickly before he walks into the garage where his jeep still stands, looking as good as always. He traces a hand over the hood of the car and remembers the last time he drove it, and how he used to drive around saving the asses of the werewolves. More or less.

He scrambles into the driver’s seat heading out to the little manor Scott and Allison rented out, just outside of Beacon Hills.

***

The manor is a three-story house surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges in the front. Some parts of the facade are covered in ivy and there’s a small arcade on the right side of the second story. There are several cars parked up front: Jackson’s Porsche, a Toyota which Stiles guesses belongs to either Scott or Allison, and the sleek, black Camaro he would recognize anywhere. He scrubs a hand through his hair, gets out of the car with a hand resting on the frame of the door and looks at the manor. Stiles has the distinct thought that Lydia probably had something to do with Scott and Allison choosing this location.

Stiles shuts the door and starts walking around the house to the backyard when he hears Allison yell his name from the front steps that lead up to the door. He turns and she waves at him, beautiful as ever. Her hair is longer again, framing her face from both sides. Stiles is pretty sure that when Scott and Allison have children, their kids will wrap everyone around their little finger in no time just by flashing their pretty dimples.

He walks back, and Allison meets him halfway, pulls him into a firm hug.

“We’re so happy you came,” she says when she pulls back resting her hands on his shoulders. He tries not to feel too bad about being reminded that he hasn’t been home in such a long time. But he knows that’s not what Allison meant.

“Yeah, I’m glad too,” he answers and pulls her into a hug one more time. “I’ve missed you guys.”

Allison pats his back gently.

“So, what is it that you want to show me?” he asks after pulling back again. Allison flashes him a wide, wide smile.

“Follow me,” she orders and swirls around, walking into the house and leading him up a staircase. Allison motions him into a big bedroom with big windows. Later afternoon light is pouring onto the floor, dipping everything in a soft shade of gold.

“Sit,” Allison commands and snaps her fingers. Stiles complies, sits down on the bed while Allison disappears through an open door that leads into another bedroom, apparently. He waits patiently for her to come back staring out the windows. Stiles can see the beautiful garden that is in the backyard of the house. There are some decorations already, very subtle, in whites and a dark shade of turquoise. 

Lydia is there, carrying a box with some things inside Stiles can’t make out. She’s calling orders over her shoulder and through the open cracks of the bedroom windows, Stiles can hear a collective groan of several male individuals. He smirks to himself.

When Allison walks into the bedroom again, she’s wearing her wedding gown. It’s pristine white and reminds Stiles strongly of old Greek dressing styles. The skirt falls straight around her legs and pools in white cloth around her feet; there’s a prettily decorated belt-like band running curling around her waist and broad straps shape a V over her under her collar bones. The sleeves fall loosely from her shoulders and are open, revealing Allison’s arms but are caught around her elbows again. She adjusts the dress a little, picking here and there, running her hands over the fabric.

Tentatively, she sends Stiles a smile, and he sits up straight. She looks amazing.

“Turn around,” he says, “Please.”

Allison chuckles lightly before she starts spinning slowly. She folds her hands in front of herself once she’s done and looks expectantly at Stiles.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“I think you look devastatingly beautiful,” Stiles confesses. “Stunning.”

Allison’s smile is wide and blinding and she drops a little curtsy. “Thank you.”

The door swings open and Lydia marches in. She looks Allison over, sighs dreamily, and then turns to Stiles.

“I swear if you forgot your tux I will cut you,” she says evenly but Stiles has no illusions that she wouldn’t do it.

“I am so happy to see you too, Lydia,” he counters instead and flashes her a smile. Lydia rolls her eyes, however, she sweeps in to hug him briefly. She cards both her hands through his hair and tugs at the ends a little bit, looking at him contemplatively.

“Where’s your tux?” Lydia asks stepping back again. She walks over to Allison and tugs around at her dress.

“It’s at my dad’s.”

She looks him over again while Allison smirks at him, and then Lydia shakes her head. “I’ll be at yours tomorrow first thing in the morning to make sure everything’s as it is supposed to be.”

Stiles doesn’t even get to ask or protest—because seriously, what can there be wrong with a tux?—and Lydia’s out of the room before he can open his mouth. He stares after her.

“After she was done with Scott and his tux he didn’t move for the rest of the day,” Allison tells him as she gathers the train of her dress. “He whined before she dragged him out to get it suited and he whined after. But so did all the other guys to be honest. They just won’t admit it.”

“That’s because we don’t _whine_ ,” Stiles says in sympathy. “We just take it.”

“Yes, of course,” Allison mocks and laughs when Stiles pulls a face at her. She turns and vanishes in the other room again, probably to change again.

When Allison comes back, Stiles says, “This is a beautiful place by the way. Did Lydia bully you into celebrating here?”

“Technically...maybe,” Allison admits while shoeing Stiles out of the room. “You know, I didn’t really care about where the reception takes place. I would have been fine if it happened at home. But Lydia found this manor and she told me about it. At first, I wasn’t interested—and you know Scott, he’s not big on stuff like this. So then, one day, Lydia just brought us here, to take a look, make a picture for ourselves—and I immediately fell in love with this place...so. Scott agreed, he likes it too.”

“Scott is a secret romantic.”

“Tell me about it,” Allison agrees smiling. “But guess what. Derek loves it here. He wouldn’t admit it for the life of him but I think he really does like it here. You should have seen the dreamy expression on his face the first time I brought him.”

“Yeah?” Stiles raises his eyebrows. “He doesn’t really strike me as the romantic type, you know. Much more like pinning you up against the nearest flat surface and—”

“You seem to have spent a lot of time imagining what kind of guy Derek is,” Allison interrupts with a smug grin. Stiles frowns at her and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his pants.

He shrugs. “No, it’s how I remember him and the impression he made.”

“Is that kind your type?” Allison asks casually while they walk down the stairs and into the spacey foyer.

Stiles shrugs nonchalantly and gives a noncommittal smile. “Who knows,” he says and turns to the direction he hears voices coming from. There is an arched doorway to a large living room and an opened door out to the patio. He points a thumb over his shoulder and suggests, “I better go and say hi to the guys.”

Isaac is bickering with Jackson over something when Stiles steps outside, and Boyd just shoves a giant pot plant around, putting it where Lydia directs it to. Derek is nowhere to be seen.

“Shut up,” Lydia hisses finally at Jackson and Isaac, who drop silent but keep glaring at each other. Lydia rolls her eyes exaggeratedly at them and then nods her approval at Boyd.

“Hey guys.” Stiles waves awkwardly to get their attention, and when they all look up to stare at him, he isn’t sure anymore if he wants it. But then Isaac smiles crookedly at him, one corner of his mouth curling upwards, almost sheepish, and he walks over to where Stiles is standing.

They don’t hug but Isaac claps him on the back, brotherly so, and says, “I started thinking you decided to scram after all, considering Jackson’s the one who picked you up and probably dumped his usual load of douchebaggery all over the place.”

“I will dump—”

“Please,” Stiles answers, shoving the words in between Jackson’s attempt to say something stupid. “I can handle it, I’m trained.”

“Teach me your ways,” Isaac pleads dramatically, and Boyd snorts walking over to them.

“It’s rather poor that you still can’t handle it,” Boyd comments with the hint of a smirk. “After all, you’ve spent more time with Jackson than Stiles.”

“True,” Lydia chimes in, earning a scowl from Isaac.

“Give him a break,” Allison says coming out from the house. “He managed to bear it all the time without maiming Jackson.”

Jackson drops a stack of something into a box, lifts it up and stalks past all of them, muttering something that sounds a lot like idiots.

“Only because if he maimed Jackson, Lydia would have maimed him,” Boyd replies dryly. “Good to see you,” he adds then turning directly to Stiles, and claps him on the shoulder before he wanders inside the house. Lydia has this look on her face that says, _damn straight_ and Stiles doesn’t argue. If he knows one thing for sure, it’s that Lydia and Jackson ground each other like no other can and that they love each other fiercely.

Stiles’ phone rings before he gets the chance to comment on it himself, and he picks up to be greeted by his father’s voice.

“Hey, son,” he says. “Where have you disappeared to?”

“Hey, sorry, dad. I’m at the manor,” Stiles answers. “Allison asked me to come over. But I think we’re done, so I’ll be home in a few.”

“Drive safely,” his dad says before he hangs up, and Stiles smiles; smiles because his father always says it; says things like, “Be safe,” or, “Take care,” and it’s such little things but they make Stiles’ heart swell with happiness.

Allison walks with him to the jeep.

“Where’s Scott, by the way? I thought he’s helping you guys here,” Stiles says as he pulls the door on the driver’s side open.

“He’s out with Erica for her dress fitting,” she tells him. “He has to make sure it’s perfect.”

Stiles kinks an eyebrow. “You sure Scott’s the one for the job?”

Allison laughs lightly. “Lydia drilled it into him and now he has it down to an art.”

“Sufficient.”

“Definitely,” she agrees. “Now go home to your dad. You two didn’t see each other for so long, I’m sure he’s a little bit mad at me that I stole you away.”

“Maybe only a little,” Stiles says, measuring it between thumb and index finger. Allison laughs again and gently pushes against his head. He slips into the car, Allison throws the door shut for him. She leans in through the open window before he starts the engine leaning on her forearms.

“I don’t know if anyone told you yet but we’re having a family dinner tomorrow night at Scott’s house. Do you wanna come?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I wanna come.”

Allison flashes her dimples at him and hums, pleased. “Just making sure. You were planned in anyway.” She pulls back adding, “I’m sure Scott will drop by later today. He’s been a bundle of excited energy all day today.”

“He better,” Stiles says smirking, feeling just as excited to see Scott again. It’s been too long, frankly, and it’s almost like a blow to the chest, that feeling. Stiles pushes the guilt away. He should have visited.

“Say hi to your dad for me,” Allison asks and waves when Stiles puts the car in gear and pulls away. Stiles catches sight of the Camaro in the rearview mirror again and wonders, briefly, where Derek’s been the entire time. He hasn’t seen or heard him. Maybe he let Isaac or Boyd drive the car and wasn’t even there.

_It doesn’t matter anyway._

When Stiles gets home, his dad is sitting at the table in the kitchen, eating the food Stiles cooked earlier while reading an article in the newspaper. He gets up, though, when he sees Stiles, and the hug he pulls him into is firm and comforting. Stiles holds on for a while. It feels so, so good to see Dad again; it’s been way too long.

“I’m glad you’re finally home, Stiles,” his dad says quietly, squeezing where he has his arms around Stiles’ shoulders.

Stiles sucks in a breath, exhaling a little shuddery. “Me too, Dad.”

They stay quiet, hugging still, and it’s been awhile since Stiles felt like this, felt safe and home. It’s not that he doesn’t have a sense of home at college, he does, but it’s not the same. Even though he’s gotten used to it over the years and the feeling of missing Beacon Hills and his father and friends have dimmed a little, it was never really gone. He’s just realizing it now.

When they finally let go of each other, Stiles’ dad claps him on the shoulder and asks, “How was the flight?”

“Good, yeah,” Stiles says while he settles on a chair across his father. “Jackson picked me up. I missed his lovely ways.”

Dad quirks an eyebrow and smiles in amusement. “I’m sure you’re the only one.”

“I just annoy him right back. That’s the trick,” Stiles admits.

“How do you like the manor?” Dad asks, looking expectant, with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“It’s really something. I’m sure it will be great. Oh, hey, Scott will be coming over later, I hope it’s fine with you?”

His father looks at him incredulously, and for a moment Stiles wonders if he said something wrong. But then his dad just shakes his head.

“I think that’s the first time you’re asking me if I’m okay with anything since—”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. Since the whole werewolf shebang started, although admittedly, Stiles rarely asked for permission even before that. He just did stuff. He couldn’t help himself. “It’s just, you and I—”

“You and I will have enough time to spend together, and Scott is going to get married in two days. I’ll live. You just make sure he doesn’t freak out at the last moment. That’s your job as his best man.”

“I’m not sure if I want that responsibility,” Stiles says jokingly.

His father rolls his eyes, though. “There’s nothing that could stop you from being there for him.”

Yeah, it’s pretty much an open secret. Stiles smiles a little feeling somewhat proud and happy; happy that no matter for long and how far he’s been gone, his friendship with Scott remained completely unaffected by it. It’s their thing, Stiles ponders, their similar sense of loyalty.

Scott drops by not even half an hour later pulling Stiles into the tightest hug he’s received yet; he’s pretty sure he can hear his bones groan in protest. Stiles can’t find it in himself to let go, nevertheless, pats Scott’s back gingerly instead and enjoys how familiar all of it feels, even after all this time.

“Good to have you back,” Scott says, it sounds a little muffled, and steps back smiling so wide Stiles worries it might split his face in half, quite literally.

“Good to be back,” Stiles admits. He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I considered leaving again, though, when I saw you sent Jackson to pick me up.”

Scott laughs and punches his shoulder lightly. “Nobody made him do anything,” he answers and then drops his voice leaning in. “Don’t tell him I told you that but he actually volunteered.”

Stiles stares at him, flabbergasted. “He did not.”

Scott puts a finger to his lips as if motioning to be quiet. It’s kind of nice that Jackson of all people voluntarily picked him up from the airport. Actually, it’s way too good to let it go and not tease him about how much he’s obviously missed Stiles—maybe he’ll use it some other time to needle Jackson about it. And he’ll have to make sure there’s someone around to keep Jackson from ripping him a new one.

When they pass the living room on their way up to Stiles’ room, Scott waves at Stiles’ dad with a bright smile. Stiles is pretty sure he hears him mutter something along the lines of, “Never up to anything good,” but he doesn’t delve into it.

“So,” Stiles starts just as Scott flops down on the bed and sprawls out on it. “My man. Are you freaking out yet?”

Scott scratches a spot on his stomach, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Nah,” he answers after a little pause. “It’s just...there’s nothing to freak out about.”

Stiles snorts. “Dude, you’re getting married. If that’s not a reason to freak out I don’t know what is.”

Scott sits up and rubs his hands together. He shrugs noncommittally. “Well, technically...yeah,” he admits running a hand over the back of his neck. “But I’m sure about this, Stiles. I’ve never been so sure of anything like I am about this—so I don’t feel like freaking out.”

They look wordlessly at each other.

“I want this,” Scott adds then, voice so full of certainty and determination but Stiles would’ve known anyway. “I’m—it feels natural.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise, really. Scott and Allison sure had their ups and downs, both alone and as a couple, but they’ve made it through it; always found a way back together again. So yeah, it’s not surprising.

“I’d be scared shitless,” Stiles blurts, surprising himself. He’s never really consciously thought about marriage or marrying somebody. “I mean, I guess. You’re vowing to spend of the rest of your life with that one person.”

Scott shrugs again, a dreamy smile on his lips. “That’s what I want.”

Stiles nods dumbly. If he ever marries somebody he wants to be as cool about it as his best friend; to have the same certainty about it and not to worry about it, simply because—because he _loves_.

“You’ll know,” Scott assures him and smiles when Stiles looks up. “You’ll know when it’s your turn. When you find that person.”

“What makes you so sure I’ll find somebody?”

Scott rolls his eyes. “I’m your best friend, I know these things.”

“You werewolves developed the ability to see the future now or what?”

Scott flings a pillow at his face as an answer. Stiles catches it laughing and throws it right back. “I’m happy for you, dude. Really.”

“Thanks.” Scott flashes his dimples, and Stiles is yet again pretty sure that the Argent-McCall babies are gonna make everybody fall for them in a matter of seconds.

Stiles drops down on the bed next to Scott and stares up at the ceiling.

“So, you got your speech ready?”

“No, I’ll improvise.”

“Nothing good can come out of it.”

“Shut up. Have you written your wedding vows yet?”

“Do you want to hear it?”

“I’m flattered, dude, but you’re marrying Allison.”

Scott looks at him then with an expression that’s a mixture between amusement and exasperation but then he chuckles lightly, shaking his head.

“I’m serious,” Stiles says, deadpan. “I’m not going to destroy a relationship you’ve spent years building.”

Scott beats him with a pillow until Stiles is crying with laughter.

Stiles doesn’t admit that he tears up a little when Scott recites his wedding vows, and Scott smiles contentedly.

“Good?” he asks.

Stiles nods. “Yeah.”

***

He jerks awake at ass o’clock the next morning when his bedroom door bangs open and Lydia stands in his room, one hand on her hip, the other clutching an iPad and a phone. She rolls her eyes at the sight of him and Scott blearily blinking back at her.

“In case you two idiots forgot: there’s a wedding happening tomorrow, so get your lazy asses up,” she snaps, flicking a strand of hair back. “Stiles, get your tux out. Scott, Allison still needs your help with the seating plan.”

“Seating plan?” Scott croaks, voice thick with sleep still, and rubs at his eyes. He sounds like he has no idea what’s going. Which probably is the case but Stiles can’t blame him considering he’s half comatose himself.

“Do you need me to dump a bucket of water on you?” Lydia asks.

Scott groans and heaves himself off the bed. “I will never ask you to plan anything ever again,” he mutters when he sways past her and out of the door, probably to go to the bathroom.

Lydia doesn’t seem to pay attention to him, though, and walks over to where Stiles is still lying on the bed. She jabs a finger into his ribs making him yowl in surprise. He rubs a hand over the spot while glowering at her. Lydia raises an eyebrow at him, unfazed.

“Chop-chop, Stilinski,” she urges impatiently.

“You’re a spawn of Satan.”

“If I’m anything I’m Satan herself,” she replies while tapping away at her iPad. Stiles shuffles around the room, trying to shake the sleepiness from his body. He grumbles a little at her, although it’s of no use. Carefully, he takes the garment bag his tux is in off the hook on his door, where he put it up yesterday.

“No kidding,” Stiles mutters while he peels the tux out of the bag.

“Put it on,” Lydia orders, still tapping away at her pad and not bothering to look up.

“I need to pee.”

“Tie a knot, and put the tux on.”

“ _Tie a knot_ ,” Stiles parrots, earning himself an impressive glower from her.

“You want me to do it?” she snipes sweetly and flashes a smile with too many teeth.

“You’re evil.” It’s not like he’s just found out.

Before he can start stripping off the clothes he fell asleep in, Scott walks back into the room, looking refreshed and a lot less like he’s been chewed on than before, and Stiles uses the chance to race into the bathroom. He snickers when he hears Lydia yelling curses after him.

Stiles hears Scott yelp and tries not to picture too vividly what Lydia might have done to make him sound like that.

“See you later, dude!” Scott yells from outside the bathroom. Stiles is a little afraid to be left alone with Lydia this early in the morning. He looks at himself in the mirror, tells himself to man up—he can do this, Lydia’s not _that_ scary—and gets out of the bathroom after finishing his morning routine.

Lydia is sitting on his desk chair, one leg gracefully crossed over the other, strawberry-blonde locks swiftly falling over her shoulders. Impatiently, she taps her foot against the floor. When she catches sight of him, she gets up immediately and shoots him a dirty look, like Stiles completely threw off her time schedule for today. Which he probably did. By simply using the bathroom.

“Strip,” Lydia orders and walks over to where Stiles splayed out the tux on the bed. He complies this time and peels off his clothes; she hands him the pants once Stiles is down to his boxers.

When Lydia scrunches up her nose, put out, while Stiles is buttoning the dress shirt, he asks, “What?”

Instead of a vocal answer, she just holds up the bow tie, one that doesn’t have to be tied anymore. She holds it like it’s gonna bite her, between index finger and thumb.

“ _Really_.”

“You are not going to wear this,” Lydia insists.

“That’s the only bow tie I have,” Stiles protests, finishing the last button and making grabby hands at the vest. Lydia drops the bow tie and hands him the vest.

“I’ll get you a real one,” Lydia says, pulling out her iPad again and sliding her fingers swiftly over the smooth surface.

Stiles makes an indignant noise at the back of his throat. “This is a real bow tie.”

She just shoots him a look that speaks volumes of how wrong she thinks he is. Stiles snaps his mouth shut sullenly and grabs the tux jacket to tug it on. The last time he wore something similar was for prom, and Stiles remembers he felt like a real flashy dude back then. However, Lydia gives him a once over when he’s finished putting on the tuxedo, and Stiles can’t stop himself from preening a little at the satisfied face she makes.

“Excellent,” Lydia nods. “I’ll take care of the bow tie, and then you’re all set. Although, I have to admit I was concerned that I’d have to find you a fitting tuxedo within twenty-four hours...”

Stiles squawks. “You doubted me?”

“I doubted your ability to tell a suit from a tux.”

He snorts and rolls his eyes so hard he worries for a second that he might strain something. “Please,” Stiles huffs.

“Except for Jackson and Derek no one knew,” Lydia informs him with an annoyed edge to her voice. “Of the boys, that is.”

“So you just threw me into the pot too,” Stiles mutters, outraged.

“It actually throws me more that you know than it would if you didn’t.” She shrugs and puts her iPad away. Smiling, she steps in front of him, mockingly patting his cheek. “But you’ve always been a bright one, so—”

“Thank you so much for the acknowledgement. Really boosts my ego.”

“Now that we’ve got this cleared up,” Lydia continues and takes the fake bow tie, tucks it into the pocket of her jeans, probably to keep him from trying to sneakily put it on tomorrow. “Here’s today’s plan: I bet Scott has told you about the dinner tonight already. Allison and he both agreed that they don’t want a catering service for that, so it’s been decided that it will be homemade—”

“Oh no—”

“—and unsurprisingly, there wasn’t much of a discussion—”

“No.”

“—and we figured you weren’t here to help with much of the preparations so you can just cook the dinner for tonight—”

“How am I supposed to cook for--how many are we even? I don’t even know who’s invited.”

“—with Derek.”

Stiles groans exasperated. Like hell. He should have seen that one coming.

“This is a conspiracy,” he declares, barely keeping himself from jabbing a finger at Lydia. “I’m catching the next flight back.”

Lydia glances at the delicate watch on her wrist. “Derek should be here in about an hour,” she tells him, completely ignoring his complaint (and threat). “He knows what’s on the menu, you’ll have to go buy everything you need, though. You better get breakfast now, before he gets here.”

She takes her stuff, turns on her heel and walks out of his room.

“I didn’t agree to any of this!” Stiles yells after her.

“Derek’s got the key to Scott’s house,” Lydia answers, her voice barely raised above a normal level. “Don’t mess it up.”

“‘Don’t mess it up’,” Stiles mocks quietly after the front door falls shut behind her. He sighs long-sufferingly, starts undressing again and carefully puts the tuxedo back into the garment bag. Haphazardly, he throws on a loose shirt and drops back onto the bed, curls up and closes his eyes—for a second.

There’s soft rustling Stiles wakes up to and a flash of bright blue when he blearily blinks his eyes open. He almost falls off his bed with a yowl then, becoming aware that there’s somebody in his room, and it’s like sobering up suddenly.

“Stiles.”

He loses his balance and drops off the bed backwards, cracking his head on the floor, and Derek’s face appears in his periphery: all sharp cheekbones, epically expressive eyebrows and a scowl to rival all scowls.

“Dude, the window?” Stiles asks incredulously. “Seriously?”

“I could’ve come through the door but—”

“If you say breaking and entering, dude, I swear to god.”

Derek draws back then while Stiles sits up and rubs a hand over the back of his head where he feels a dull headache building.

“Why were you sleeping?” Derek asks, somewhere halfway between annoyed, impatient and exasperated. “We’re supposed t—”

“I know,” Stiles snaps and—for good measure—adds, “Dumbass.”

Derek makes an aggrieved noise, looking for all the word like he’s ready to start a fight with Stiles over this. They’ve argued over less, it’s always been their thing. Derek grabs the shirt Stiles wore yesterday and haphazardly shredded earlier in order to show Lydia the tux, and throws it at his head.

“Get dressed,” Derek orders shortly.

“Don’t boss me around.”

Derek rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts—and that, too, is still the same and so familiar. But then again, he didn’t really expect Derek to change all too much.

“Look,” Derek begins, a stern expression on his face. “I can do this alone. If you—”

“Whoa, hold it right there,” Stiles interrupts him, again. “You think I can’t do this?”

“I didn’t even say that.”

“You meant it.”

Derek scoffs. “Why do I even argue with you? You seem to know what I think before I know it myself.”

“Man, I haven’t missed you one bit,” Stiles mutters stubbornly as he grabs a fresh pair of pants out of his suitcase. Derek scowls a little harder at him, mouth a taut line. Stiles balances on one foot while he shoves his left leg into the pants.

Derek just stands there, in the middle of the bedroom, and watches while Stiles changes again. It’s stilted and a little awkward.

It’s then that Stiles really takes in the blue shirt Derek is wearing, the V-neck exposing parts of his collarbones. The colour isn’t new—or rather the fact that Derek wears something colourful isn’t new—but it is simply unfair how good it looks. Stiles manages to avert his gaze, yet he catches Derek’s sarcastic single-eyebrow-kink—and that’s _rude_ is what it is.

“Let’s go,” Stiles snaps, irritated.

“Have you eaten yet?” Derek asks calmly, absolutely unaffected by Stiles’ mood, and he doesn’t even sound mocking or impatient or annoyed.

Stiles gapes at him, unsure what to make of it. He settles on, “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Derek replies brusquely. “You get overly whiny when you’re hungry and don’t get anything to eat, and I’m not up for that.”

“Other than me, you don’t need a reason to whine. You do it all the time,” Stiles counters and stalks out of his room and down the stairs. He throws on the coffee machine despite himself and eats a few slices of toast, all the while trying hard to ignore Derek leaning against the door frame in the kitchen with his arms crossed in front of his chest and watching Stiles warily.

Stiles turns his back to him while he shoves another bite of toast into his mouth. He tells himself it’s because the blue of Derek’s shirt hurts his eyes.

“So,” Derek starts slowly, contemplative. “You’ve been gone pretty long.”

Stiles snorts derisively. “Oh, so you noticed?”

There’s quiet shuffling behind him but Stiles doesn’t turn around to see what Derek is doing. Instead, he downs a few gulps of his coffee, wondering why he’s so snappish. It’s not like Derek’s exactly going out of his way to piss Stiles off. He tells himself to pull his crap together.

Derek is still looking at him when Stiles turns back around. He looks better now, attentive but not like’s going to bolt any second; less haunted, less tense; a little softer around the edges, more at ease with his surroundings and with himself. Stiles isn’t sure if this is how Derek feels but it sure is how it seems. It’s a little startling, to be honest, that this particular change appears to be so visible, so obvious.

“It took me some time to realize that the comforting silence had to do with you leaving.”

“My world was so much _brighter_ when you weren’t around anymore to cast shadows on everything.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches slightly, and Stiles knows that this is easy banter; no heat behind their words. He finishes his breakfast and follows Derek out. The Camaro is parked in the driveway where Dad’s cruiser usually is parked. Stiles figures his father’s back at work again, working early so he can be there for dinner tonight.

“So what’s on the menu today?” Stiles asks as he slinks into the passenger’s seat of Derek’s car. It smells so much of Derek, it hits him unexpectedly, and Stiles has to stop himself from taking in a deep breath.

“Rock salt encrusted prime rib,” Derek answers while manoeuvring the car backwards onto the street. He, just like Dad, tends to halfway turn and hug the passenger’s seat and look over his shoulder when he drives backwards. Stiles stares at the long expanse of Derek’s neck and his strong jaw line, all on display now. For a moment, he wonders if Derek had gone without stubble while Stiles had been away at college.

Derek turns back around and catches him staring. Stiles snaps his eyes away from Derek’s face. “Fancy.”

“I voted chicken,” Derek says, gaze steadily fixed on the street. “But the majority wanted prime rib.”

Stiles tries not to think about it too much. He prefers chicken to every other meat, and he knows that Derek doesn’t actually care about kinds of meat all too much.

“I haven’t had prime rib in a long time,” Stiles mentions. Derek doesn’t say anything, and they don’t talk for the rest of the ride to the store.

In the two years before Stiles left for college, the relationship between Derek and him had evolved. They had gone from barely accepting each other to allies to friends. During that time, the tension between Derek and Scott eased out too, and they had become—brothers, is what Scott said, reciting what Derek had told him that first full moon out in the woods. Stiles remembers how he talked with Scott about it and how Scott said he didn’t know what it was supposed to mean.

A lot changed in those two years. They all lost some of their tension, became easier around each other, a little bit more trusting. Allison took a pause from all of it after the Gerard thing, kept out of the werewolf space and business (together with her dad), and got back into it when the Alpha pack turned up wreaking havoc. And then—when Allison and Derek faced each other awhile after that again for the first time, and they each exchanged wordless apologies and peace offerings (for all Stiles knows it could have been anything, though)—something just clicked into place. Their dynamic changed and Scott and Derek were (and are) Alphas of their own respective packs but they all still grew so very close.

Obviously, the bond has gotten even stronger still while Stiles has been away.

“I’m guessing family dinner means Scott and his mom, Allison and her dad, and the packs?” Stiles ponders after Derek’s parked the car in front of the store.

“Yes,” Derek answers and shoots him a quick glance. “Is this a problem for you?”

Stiles shrugs. “Last I remember Scott and you weren’t so close that he considered you family,” he clarifies, feigning nonchalance—and is surprised that he actually manages it.

Derek watches him for a moment silently, eyes intently focused on Stiles, and Stiles barely keeps from squirming under the scrutiny. “You missed a lot,” Derek finally says.

It almost feels like a slap even though Stiles knows it’s the truth. He did miss a lot, no matter how much Scott told him, or how much he talked to Dad or Allison. Talking isn’t a sufficient substitute for actually being there, witnessing all the stuff happening; seeing Scott and Derek becoming so close.

“No shit,” Stiles mutters and gets out of the car. Derek catches up with him easily.

“I wouldn’t go as far and say Scott considers me family,” Derek says. “‘Family dinner’ rolls off the tongue easier than ‘a dinner for family and friends’, don’t you think?”

Yes, he does, and still it kind of feels like Derek tries to reel back a little, take the implication of the words he said before back; make it sound less of a reproach. It wasn’t an accusation, though, it was a simple fact stated matter-of-factly. Stiles knows that. It stings nonetheless.

“What do we need?” Stiles asks then, watches Derek pull out a little note out of the pocket of his jacket. He snatches it right out of Derek’s fingers.

“Allison already bought the rib roast,” Derek tells him and grabs for a basket while Stiles studies the note.

“What do you have in mind as garnish?” Stiles asks, walking around the store to collect the things they need.

“I’m pretty sure it says ‘potatoes’ on there,” he replies and nods at the snippet in Stiles’ hand.

“That’s supposed to be a P? Dude, that doesn’t even resemble a P with a lot of imagination.”

“Maybe you should start reading more things in handwriting than sticking to first grade block capitals.”

“I’d advise you to start making your letters look like actual letters instead of very creative drawings of ponies.”

“Those are pot-bellied pigs, not ponies.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles groans and buries his face in his palm, walking blindly, until Derek gently wraps a hand around his biceps and makes him stop.

“Don’t run over the toddlers,” Derek says amused. Stiles pries his hands off his face then and looks at the child standing on somewhat wobbly legs in front of him.

“Children are a menace,” Stiles muses right when the mother of the child appears to wave her kid back. She throws him a dirty look, Stiles smiles politely and waves.

“Says the guy who tries to hide from the world by burying his head in his palms,” Derek counters, there’s a strong hint of glee in his voice. Stiles glowers at him.

“I did try to hide from your ridiculous so-called pigs,” Stiles scoffs.

“If you could get over your awe now, we have some shopping to do.”

“I think you mixed up awe with dread.”

Derek just huffs at that. Stiles smirks, starting to walk again. “So, red peppers then.”

“Rosemary.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dude, rosemary’s boring. Red peppers are so much better, nice and spicy—”

“We’re going with rosemary, Stiles,” Derek says in a tone that implies it’s not up for discussion.

Stiles narrows his eyes at him, Derek looks right back. He’s not sure whether he should be surprised that they’re arguing about this.

For a moment, Stiles contemplates just bolting and getting the spices but then he settles on, “Why?”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “Because,” he starts, sounding like he’s very carefully trying to explain something complicated to a child, “it pairs better with rosemary.”

“How do you know that?” Stiles demands stubbornly. Whenever Derek thought he had a good plan (hardly ever), it just—wasn’t (most times). So Stiles isn’t convinced and ready to argue about this. Now that he’s been put on cooking duty, he wants to have some say in this.

Derek simply looks at him, a little sullen and—dare he say—embarrassed around the edges. Then, after an awkward pause, Derek huffs and grits out, “I’ve tried rib roast with different spices and garnishes. Trust me, it’s best with potatoes and rosemary.”

“Oh my god.”

“What,” Derek snaps surly.

“Are you—do you have a _thing_ for—are you a foodie?” Stiles asks, incredulous, and watches how Derek almost recoils a little, face souring. He looks like he doesn’t want to be having this conversation at all, shoulders tense and posture stiff.

“No,” he eventually replies, curtly.

“Dude,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, and catches Derek scowl at him. “That’s totally fine. I’m not mocking you.”

“I’m not.”

Stiles raises his hands, showing his palms. “Okay. Whatever you say, buddy.”

Derek still looks like he’s bitten into a lemon for the first time in his life. It would be hilarious if it wasn’t for the fact that Stiles has to spend the day with him and a grumpy werewolf—especially when said grumpy werewolf is Derek—isn’t fun to be around.

Derek goes to grab the rosemary and Stiles takes it on himself to get the horseradish. It takes Stiles a little to find Derek between the shelves but when he spots him, he’s still standing in front of the spices, contemplating rosemary, obviously.

“Dude, it’s just rosemary,” Stiles says with quirked eyebrows. Derek throws him a sour look before he decides and puts the spice into the basket. Stiles intends on dropping off the horseradish but Derek plucks it from his hands, a disdainful expression on his face—well, eyebrows; disdainful eyebrows.

“Not the cheapest, jesus, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “As if anyone would taste the difference—oh wait. I apologize, your gourmet tongue would.”

Derek huffs. “If we’re going with all this effort, we might as well spend a little more money on the details, don’t you think?”

“Well, I figured it’s more about getting everyone around a table to spend time together than tasting and trying to guess how much the horseradish cost but I don’t want to dull your extraordinary gustatory sense with the cheap stuff.”

“Stiles—”

“Yes, oh my god, dude, don’t get your panties in a twist here. I’ll swap it.”

He wanders off to swap the horseradish with _other_ horseradish. It’s ridiculous. But he’ll also never let Derek live it down, so it’s also kind of a win.

Derek is several shelves down when Stiles gets back with the most expensive horseradish he could find—for a brief moment he wonders how Derek even knew that the previous one was the cheapest but that’s probably a secret foodie werewolf power or something—and drops it into the basket.

“Better now, chef?”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches. “I remember you going on and on about that the surest way to win your heart is by cooking you an amazing meal.”

Stiles stares at him, dumbfounded. He tries to recall when he talked about it—when Derek was around to hear—but he comes up empty. It makes the back of his neck feel hot, the fact that Derek remembers something Stiles doesn’t.

“So, in other words you’re trying to woo m—somebody with expensive food?” Stiles inquires. “You better not go for Allison, or so help me I will make it so it _hurts_.”

He jabs a finger at Derek for emphasis. Derek swats his hand away rolling his eyes.

“If Scott and Chris don’t get to me first,” he deadpans.

“Oh my—dude, it was a joke,” Stiles mutters, exasperated, and scrubs a hand through his hair. Derek watches the motion, his eyes linger on his hair a little. He shakes himself out of it, shrugs and turns toward the next section.

“You’ve made better ones,” he points out then, waiting for Stiles to catch up.

“So. Red wine, I’m guessing,” Stiles suggests and nods at the liquor section, effectively changing the topic.

“Yes,” Derek agrees. “But not here.”

“Right. Not the cheap stuff.”

Derek answers him with a sneer.

In the end, Derek makes Stiles wait in the car while he goes to get the wine.

“Yeah, buddy, I know you don’t want to be fazed by my impeccable taste in wine,” Stiles says leaning out of the window on the passenger’s side. “It’s okay, I don’t want to shatter your worldview.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Stiles sits back smirking and watches Derek walk into the liquor store. His blue shirt isn’t exactly tight but it doesn’t hide his frame either. Stiles stares, a little bit smitten, takes in the way the shirt stretches over Derek’s shoulders and wraps around his upper arms; how it pools around his hips. If anything, Derek’s become even better looking during Stiles’ absence; not necessarily in a strictly physical way but in how he holds himself now, strong and confident, and not skittish and haunted, not desperately trying to hide insecurities. It’s ridiculous how well Derek’s new gained sophistication suits him. Stiles hates everything about that guy.

Derek comes back with four bottles of wine and carefully stores them away in the backseat. Stiles twists around grabbing one of the bottles while Derek slides behind the wheel.

“Four bottles?” Stiles asks incredulously, slowly turning the wine in his hands to read the label. “‘Petite Sirah’.”

“It’s a recommendation,” Derek admits.

“By whom?” Stiles looks up in time to see Derek grit his teeth and a look on his face that speaks volumes of how much he regrets saying anything.

“Peter.”

“You sure this isn’t poisoned?” Stiles asks suspiciously and waggles the bottle a little.

Derek snorts, “He didn’t _make_ the wine. Besides, Peter’s long gone and he said this before—whenever my family had prime rib he’d buy Petite Sirah.”

They sit in silence for a little while. Stiles looks at the bottle of wine in his hands and imagines how a Hale family lunch or dinner looked like; what it was like. He pictured a young Derek, happy and free of sorrows, surrounded by his family, when everything was still intact and fine. And then it hits him how important this is to Derek—possibly, probably—how the people around him grew together to something that, even if only loosely, resembles a family.

“Wait, were you even old enough to drink this then?” Stiles blurts. He barely keeps himself from slapping a hand over his mouth but then again, Derek never really liked being pity treated.

Derek’s lips curl upward in a small smile. “Technically no,” he answers. “But Laura stole Peter’s glass and shared it with me. As kids, we don’t get alcohol out of our systems as fast, so we ended up being pretty smashed. My mother was furious, it was very intimidating. I think we were grounded for, like, a month.”

“Dude, a month is pretty generous. I would’ve been grounded until graduation,” Stiles counters. Derek’s laugh rings through the car, clear and gleeful, and Stiles has never ever heard him laugh like that. It’s a first, a terrific nice first, if he’s honest. “Well but I have to mention here that all the grounding attempts were pretty half-assed. At least Dad always caved, because I whined and complained nonstop that I couldn’t see Scott outside of school.”

“Yeah,” Derek nods with a small smile on his lips, “You two are—”

“Say it,” Stiles prompts when Derek trails off and pauses as if he’s not sure whether he should really voice his opinion. “I dare you. Say it.”

Derek scrunches up his face. “Nah.”

“You afraid or what?” Stiles teases.

“Idiots,” Derek replies then. His grin is outrageously shit-eating, the asshole. “You two are idiots.”

“Well, that’s very flattering, _fucker_.” Stiles rolls his eyes when Derek flashes him a smug grin.

Lydia calls then, ordering them to come to the manor. They still have a little time left until they have to start preparing the dinner, so Derek changes directions.

“Since when are you so whipped?” Stiles asks waggling his eyebrows. Derek hadn’t even argued or rolled his eyes when Lydia had ordered them to the manor; he just calmly changed lanes in order to take the right turn out of town.

“I’m not whipped,” Derek huffs. “I just know better than to argue.”

“That’s the nice way to put that you’re undeniably and helplessly _whipped_ ,” Stiles says loftily, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice and the shit-eating smirk off his face.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to trust your year-long experience in being the most undeniably and helplessly whipped person I have ever met.”

“You take that back!” Stiles wails indignantly, flapping a hand at Derek.

“That was a compliment,” Derek deadpans.

“I hate you, asshole.”

“I know,” Derek answers softly, and Stiles turns to stare out of the window, because that smile is—ridiculous is what it is.

Lydia greets them outside when they arrive and snaps her fingers at them, motioning for Stiles and Derek to follow her.

“Stiles, you and your father stay in the room over here,” Lydia says leading him into a small hallway. She points at a door that has _1C_ in elegant lettering on it. He grabs the key she dangles from her finger in front of him, puzzled.

“I didn’t know we would stay over,” he points out. Lydia rolls her eyes at him.

“It’s assumed that everyone except the werewolves will be too intoxicated to drive anywhere,” she replies, a _Duh_ heavily implied. “And Allison was against making them chauffeur us home, so I made some arrangements.”

Turning to Derek, she continues, “Your room is on the second floor. _2B_ ,” handing over the key.

“Why does Derek get a room for himself?” Stiles asks, indignation clear in his tone, and—when Derek bares his teeth at him—snaps, “Don’t you dare playing that Alpha card.”

“It’s a single bedroom,” Derek answers smugly.

“I bet it has a kingsize bed,” Stiles mutters under his breath. Lydia huffs impatiently but doesn’t comment further. Stiles plans to steal Derek’s key and sneak into his room just to check out the bed.

“Scott is outside. He needs to talk to you,” Lydia informs Stiles and waves him off, directing her attention back to Derek and instructing him to do something that sounds like it requires werewolf-strength, so Stiles takes off to find Scott.

He finds him bickering with Jackson about table decoration of all things. It’s a topic Scott has little to absolutely no idea about, Jackson on the other side seems to be a pro.

“Apparently, you’re a wicked good decorator,” Stiles interferes clapping Jackson on the shoulder. “That casts a completely new light on you, dude.”

“I’m sure your mouth stuffed would be a thing of beauty,” Jackson snaps surly.

Stiles puts both his hands up. “That was a very dirty pun.”

“You want me to show you a pun?”

“By all means, go ahead.”

Jackson sneers at him when Scott jumps between them, grabs Stiles’ forearm and drags him away.

“Later, buddy!” Stiles hollers over his shoulder at Jackson, and gets a snarled, “You bet,” as an answer.

“Well,” Stiles says once they’re inside and Scott herds him upstairs and into one of the rooms which—going by the tux that’s hanging off the closet door—is Scott’s changing room. “I don’t know about you but I think that was pretty hot.”

Scott rolls his eyes scoffing fondly. “Stop goading him, I need you with all your limbs in place tomorrow.”

Stiles smirks widely at him, and Scott just rolls his eyes again. He turns towards the nightstand beside the bed and takes something out.

Carefully, Scott hands over the small with dark velvet covered box. Stiles peers inside sitting down on the bed. Scott sits beside him, pressing his knee in a familiar gesture against Stiles’. The rings are simple, platinum instead of gold. Allison’s name is engraved into the bigger band, Scott’s into the smaller one. Stiles quirks his eyebrows in surprise when he makes out a tiny wolf opposite Scott’s name, and a moon on Allison’s ring. It’s so overwhelmingly cheesy but at the same time kind of beautifully ethereal.

When he looks back up, Scott is watching him intently with an indistinctly expectant expression on his face.

“Dude,” Stiles says nudging Scott’s shoulder with his own. “Corny.”

Scott smiles coyly and rubs the back of his head.

“I like it,” Stiles adds. He watches the blinding smile bloom across Scott’s face, radiating so much happiness that Stiles’ chest aches a little. He closes the lid of the box and tucks it into the pocket of his pants.

“If you lose them,” Scott starts raising a finger.

“Hold your horses, Scott, do you really think I’m going to ruin your wedding by losing the rings?” Stiles is more than just a little offended. “I’m your best man! I’ll be damned if I don’t make the most excellent best man the world has ever seen. I’m not going to lose the rings.”

Scott shrugs. “I know, buddy,” he admits, smiling. “That’s the most freaked out I could manage so far. You know, crazy wedding worries.”

Stiles laughs in surprise. “Do you feel better now that you’ve tried?”

Scott scrunches up his nose and shakes his head. “No. Sucks.”

“Look at you: all grown up,” Stiles sighs and pats Scott gently on the back. He feels happy and proud of him. Scott and Allison are proof that things can work out even against the odds. It’s not a happy end, though, but rather a beginning.

They head back downstairs.

“Stilinski!” a familiar female voice shouts, and then a couple of arms wrap around him and the owner of the voice jumps on his back. “You are a _dick_.”

Erica crosses her ankles in front of him while Stiles instinctively grabs her thighs to hold her. Her blond locks fall down the side of his face as she leans forward.

“Am I,” Stiles says flatly. “Why are you jumping me then? Unless—”

“Save it,” she snaps, amused. “Everyone’s seen you and I’m the only one who hasn’t. You didn’t even shoot me a text that you’re here and free to hang out.”

Stiles furrows his brows, shifts a little to adjust the grip he has on her while Erica hooks her chin over his shoulder. “But you knew I was coming, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” she answers. “I just—”

She stops short, sounding a little petulant. “I just wanted to see you sooner. You’ve been gone so long.”

Erica detangles herself and slips off his back. Stiles turns around to her going for a hug, and she reciprocates immediately.

“You could’ve come over yesterday, after your fitting.”

She rolls her eyes. “And bust your epic brounion with Scott? I can’t steel myself enough for that amount of sap.”

“Hey!” Scott cries indignantly, the same time Stiles counters, “You’re just too weak to handle all the epic bro-love.”

“Please, no more,” Derek begs walking in with Lydia at his side, making a face at them.

“Jealous much?” Stiles asks haughtily and sticks out his tongue when Derek arches an eyebrow. Lydia looks like all of this is so much below her and like she’s no idea how she ended up with a bunch of morons.

“Jealous of being attached by the hip to somebody?” Derek mocks, a sarcastic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“ _Precisely_. Maybe if you were, people would actually _like_ you,” Stiles reprimands.

“People like me just fine.”

“Did you record that and listen to it every night before you go to bed?”

“No, I write it on my palm every morning and look it at to remind myself.”

“Awww, dude, does it help you sleep at night?”

Derek shrugs nonchalantly. “Why? You afraid I’m stealing your friends while you’re not looking?”

Stiles is stunned into speechlessness, and it _burns_. He didn’t expect this, not at all, and it’s not even something he’s considered before now. Having heard Derek voicing this, though—it triggered something in Stiles, something that almost painfully settles on his chest. Rationally, he knows it’s bullshit. Derek does not steal anyone from him, and Stiles feels as connected to anyone as he had when he had left. He’s noticed that Derek’s relationships grew and evolved too but—.

Derek is already turning away, and Stiles is glad he said it so off-handedly and is not paying attention to the little internal crisis Stiles is having.

Erica rolls her eyes. “Seriously, it’s been years and the two of you still push each other’s buttons with frightening accuracy.”

“What buttons?” Stiles asks dumbly. Now, even Scott looks like he thinks Stiles is kidding.

“You goad each other like it’s the only thing you live for,” Erica elaborates, examining her nails. Derek walked out again with Lydia, doing something Stiles has probably no idea about—or is way better at than Derek. Who knows.

“Yeah,” Scott nods in agreement. “He’s been really, really obnoxious about it. No one catches on his stupid sense of humor like you do, and he annoyed the crap out of everybody trying to get back that—the pigtail-pulling the two of you have going on.”

“Pigtail-pulling.”

“Call it what you want,” Erica says and waves a hand at him. “Pigtail-pulling, bickering, bantering, snarking, dirty talk...”

Scott almost chokes a little, and Stiles groans pressing the balls of his hands to his eyes. “I don’t think that’s how dirty talk works.”

The grin Erica flashes him is wide and smug and filthy. “Everyone has their brand of—”

“Nope,” Stiles says while Scott looks like he wants to disappear into the ground. “Not going there.”

“It seems to do the trick for you.”

“It doesn’t do anything. Derek’s a dick, that’s all.”

“And you’re an asshole,” Erica sniggers, bemused, a wicked smirk tagged onto her face.

To Stiles’ never-ending shame, it takes him a little to get her pun, and he doesn’t know whether he should cry or laugh or lie down on the floor and play dead. It’s that kind of dumb, horny teenager humor he usually appreciates so much, and Erica was (and still is) his favourite go-to buddy when it comes to his but right now—right now Stiles wants to build a pillow fort and never come out again.

What’s an even bigger surprise is that even Scott snickers like the total child he is, and Stiles wonders for a brief moment when Erica seduced him to follow them on the dark side.

“That was shockingly terrible,” Stiles finally manages.

“Scott laughed.”

“You don’t need much to make Scott laugh, and apparently he’s all up for the flat stuff too.”

Scott splutters, an indignant expression on his face. “Long story short, dude, we all think Derek’s just enjoying having you back.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to interpret too much into his best friend’s words. It is kinda true that Derek’s dry wit always flew past Scott, and apart from that Derek never really bantered with anybody else. Stiles started to like poking Derek—figuratively—until Derek snapped; it became their thing and it was easy and funny and Derek proved himself to be actually _hilarious_. So yeah, maybe Derek missed their easy back-and-forth, for the simple reason that he doesn’t get to do it with the others. Nothing more, nothing else.

“Yeah,” Stiles says and swallows around a dry patch in his mouth. “Yeah, I’m—yeah.”

Erica rolls her eyes in an epically dramatic way. “God,” she says, voice tinged with exasperation and impatience. “It’s like picking a small wound: you know you shouldn’t and it hurts but you still can’t keep your hands off it.”

“What?” Stiles asks confused trading a questioning look with Scott. Scott just shrugs.

“Whatever.” Erica hugs him again, kisses him quickly on the cheek and pats his arm. “I’ll see you tonight at dinner. Also note that I stepped down from cooking duty for Derek—”

“No one wanted you doing the cooking,” Scott interrupts flatly.

“—so I hope you appreciate it.” She smiles at him again and then turns and walks out onto the patio, yelling at Jackson.

Stiles’ phone buzzed with a new text message. It reads, _Leaving now. Be outside ASAP or you’ll have to walk back_.

 _I’m sure I can find better company than you_.

 _Lydia already called dibs on Jackson_.

 _But Jackson’s been madly in love with me since forever_.

 _My condolences_.

 _Dick_.

 _Asshole_.

Stiles chokes on his own spit at that one, Erica’s snigger echoing in his head. For a moment, he thinks Derek’s eavesdropped on their conversation—he wouldn’t put it past him—but on the other side that would be pretty paranoid of him, and it could be a stupid coincidence. It’s not like Derek hasn’t called Stiles an asshole before. 

He turns to Scott. “Gotta run. Derek’s being surly again.”

“Still or again?” Scott asks with a grin and slaps him brotherly on the shoulder. “See you later.”

Stiles hurries outside where Derek leans against the Camaro, legs crossed at the ankles and hands splayed out on the hood of his car for balance, and looks—for all it’s worth—like a wet dream come true. It’s ridiculous is what it is. How the dude’s even real will remain a mystery to Stiles. He consoles himself with that fact that during other times, unrealistically pretty people like Derek would’ve been offered up as sacrifices to the gods. But then again, it’s good that these are not those times, because Stiles gets to ogle Derek like a squeaky, crushing teenager.

He scrambles into the passenger’s seat and buckles his belt, feeling petulant now, with Derek’s off-hand comment back on his mind. It’s stupid to dwell on it.

“Why are you sulking?” Derek asks after he gets behind the wheel, turning the key in the ignition.

“I’m not sulking,” Stiles replies. “That’s your job.”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

Derek shoots him a quick glance. Stiles picks at the seam of his shirt. The silence doesn’t last long.

“Okay now, what is it?” Derek inquires, looking slightly irritated.

“You’re a jackass is what it is.”

“That’s not news,” Derek shrugs. “Spill it.”

“I know I was gone pretty long,” Stiles blurts turning his head to look out of the window. “It’s just—you don’t have to rub it in my face every five seconds.”

He pictures Derek frowning, eyebrows low above his eyes and mouth a thin line and its corners pointing down. “I—when—” Derek struggles to get words out.

“And yes, I was afraid I would lose contact to everyone and they would forget about me and—”

“Stiles,” Derek says, firmly now, almost stern. He seems to have connected the dots, because he continues, “Nobody’s forgetting about you, no matter how far away you are or how long you’ve been away, and I—they’re your friends too, always will be.”

Stiles turns back to look at him, takes in Derek’s slightly worried expression and the soft line around his mouth.

“You’re—”

“A dick, yes, you’ve already established that.”

“—different.”

Derek seems surprised, eyes darting to Stiles quickly, and then back on the road. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Bad different or good different?”

It takes him a little by surprise that Derek asks for his opinion, in a matter like this, that he appears to be a little worried. Stiles doesn’t have to think about the answer at all but he takes time replying, just to watch Derek squirm a tiny little bit, casting surreptitious glances at Stiles in the process. Part of him doesn’t even want to admit anything but Derek kind of grew to be the good guy he is and _showing_ it too. He deserves the praise, deserves to be told that he is good.

So Stiles does. “Good different. Really good different.”

Derek is silent for a beat. He asks, “Then why are you calling me a dick?”

When Stiles looks at him again, he sees the shit-eating smirk on his face, and groans.

“That’s kind of uncalled for, don’t you think?”

“You’re an arrogant, annoying, aggrieving _asshat_.”

“So, you’re unleashing the alliterations now?”

“Oh my god, _I hate you so much_.”

Derek outright laughs at him, the corner of his eyes crinkling, flashing dimples, and his shoulders shake, and Stiles just wants to put his goddamned face through the windshield to make him stop, that _bastard_. He slumps against the seat crossing his arms in front of his chest and stares sullenly out of the passenger’s window.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a fucking moment ruiner? You ruin _moments_!”

Derek’s still chuckling. “Who said I was having a moment?”

“You—I—” Stiles splutters for a second, scrutinizing Derek’s face. He huffs in frustration. “I take it all back. You haven’t changed at all, you’re still acting like a petulant ten-year-old who unleashes his bad mood on others. You know, all Unleash the Derek style.”

“‘Unleash the Derek’?” Derek asks, dubiously.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, gazing out the window again. “You know, the thing where you dump your bad mood on others, pour your suffocating attitude over everyone around you, twist everything that is said to you into some sort of—insult or whatever. It’s what I used to call it back in high school.”

“Sometimes I get the feeling you were dropped on your head an awful lot as a child,” Derek says appraisingly, eyebrows furrowed.

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, right back at you.”

Derek’s lips quirk in amusement, he arches his eyebrows. “I was, actually. But unlike you I regained full health.”

Stiles opens his mouth to retort but for once nothing comes to him, staring out of the windshield. It’s frustrating and infuriating, and he just keeps opening and closing his mouth, until he decides to simply stare Derek down.

The second he whips around, he hears a soft clicking noise, and realises, somewhat belatedly, that it’s the shutter release of Derek’s phone. The fucker just snapped a photo of him. And he didn’t even look while he’d done it. Derek quickly pulls his hand back to prevent Stiles from grabbing the phone, and brings it up to look at the picture. He sniggers shittily.

“You look like a gaping fish,” he announces to Stiles as he stuff his phone back into the pocket of his jeans.

Stiles sneers at him half-assed before crossing his arms over his chest and slumping in his seat. This isn’t what he signed up for. Not at all. He’d almost forgotten how easy Derek can be, how relaxed and open—and _gleeful_. How much he enjoyed their goading and leisure teasing. He’d almost forgotten just how easily Derek can make him _livid_ , how he pushes and pulls; how sometimes they would make flirtatious remarks and Stiles’ heart would lurch in his chest. He hasn’t felt like this in a long time. When he left for college, Derek disappeared from his immediate thoughts and Stiles stopped contemplating the weird cocktail of emotions that bubbled inside him when it came to Derek. He simply didn’t have to anymore.

He’d thought it would be different when he came back. He hadn’t even considered it would be so—having this vocal sparring matches with Derek seems so natural. It’s like Stiles can’t even help himself.

He’d thought—expected—he wouldn’t feel like he’d been thrown back several years, to how he felt when he left.

***

Two hours later, Derek’s made him peel the potatoes. It’s a whole bunch of potatoes and Derek just keeps snickering at him everytime Stiles whines about it. Derek’s prepping the rib roast. He does things to it, Stiles has no idea about—and he’s not gonna lie, Derek’s forearms have him whimpering inwardly.

“Stop complaining, idiot,” Derek says after Stiles starts ranting again—it’s an insane amount of potatoes, okay.

“Says you who’s doctoring around with the rib,” Stiles snipes throwing another finished potato into a huge pot.

Derek makes a face at him. “I’m not doctoring around.”

“Why don’t you peel the potatoes and I prepare the rib?” Stiles asks and barely avoids cutting himself in the finger. “Oh, I forgot—you’re the foodie.”

Derek grits his teeth, the set line of his jaw clearly visible. Oh, this is so much fun.

“Would you stop.”

“You made me swap horseradish with horseradish.”

“Because—”

“It’s horseradish, dude, all the same,” Stiles singsongs smugly. “You can’t talk yourself out of it.”

“They’re diff—”

“Horseradish,” Stiles says, tapping the jar with it lightly. “All the horseradish.”

Derek sighs dramatically. “Shut up.”

Stiles cackles, delighted. “ _Shut up_ ,” he parrots, and Derek’s sour face is just worth it.

Derek narrows his eyes at him. “I will put you through the wall.”

It’s amusing, it really is. “So, you’re going with the threats again? You know they never really worked.”

“You used to be terrified of me,” Derek points out. He sounds a little bit wistful, like he misses the times when people would avoid him and be scared of him and just cower when they saw him.

Stiles shrugs. “For a little while, yes,” he admits.

Derek’s all up in his space very suddenly, standing so close that Stiles feels his breath ghosting over his own skin. His heart trips for a second but continues beating steadily after that.

“You lost your dark-and-scary-vibe, buddy,” Stiles says as Derek steps back again, huffing in annoyance. “The horseradish did it.”

Derek rolls his eyes as he puts the rib roast into the oven. “I will never see the end of it.”

“Probably not, no.”

“How is it that all these years later you’re still an incurable pain in my ass?”

“Practice, more practice, all the practice.”

“We didn’t even talk in—years.”

“Well, you made such a lasting impression that I practically heard your voice in my head and saw your eyebrow before my mind’s eye, so it wasn’t exactly hard to keep it up.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve thought about me? And you...talked to me in your head?”

Abort, _abort_.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles denies stubbornly. “Jeez, ego much?”

“You just said yourself you heard my voice in your head,” Derek points out, voice dripping with smugness. There’s a crooked smirk on his lips, one that makes him look so mischievous, playful and teasing—and it makes Stiles want to _do things_ to him.

“I mentioned the lasting impression, and that wasn’t a compliment,” he counters faintly. It sounds weak even to his own ears.

“And yet there you are thinking about me.”

“ _I_ am not going to see the end of _that_ , am I?”

“Definitely not.”

Stiles makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat, and turns back to peel the rest of the potatoes.

“So, Stiles,” Derek says casually, a couple of hours later, when the rib roast is almost done. “What did I talk to you about?”

“Why did you kiss me?” Stiles blurts.

Derek doesn’t even slip while he cleans up the counter he’s worked on before. “What?” he asks. Stiles can see the tension seeping into his shoulders, though, the set of his jaw.

He doesn’t even know why he’s asking. Stiles hasn’t told anybody before, hasn’t allowed himself to think about it when he left for college, and has kept it carefully out of his mind this whole time. So, he has no idea why his brain decided to pick up that topic, the one thing Stiles so cautiously maintained to avoid for years.

“You kissed me,” Stiles says, surprised by how steady his voice is. “The night before I left for college. You just grabbed me and you kissed me and—I—why did you do that?”

It had left Stiles speechless and panting, dazed and confused. Derek hadn’t stayed to explain, he was gone by the time Stiles managed to piece himself back together. Stiles had decided not to go after him, and Derek didn’t come the next day to say goodbye. Until this day, Stiles hasn’t been able to figure out what it was supposed to mean, and--during times when his mind had wandered to that particular scene to replay it—he’d felt like the kiss came out of nowhere. It wasn’t like Stiles hadn’t been attracted to Derek, then and now, but...

But Stiles never actually took the time to think about what exactly he felt for Derek, never labelled it, never let himself consider it could be more than just a daydream or a fantasy. In retrospect, he remembers that there was an awful lot of flirting going on--he wasn’t aware back then. Maybe it had been more obvious than he thought, and he’d just been too ignorant to see.

And now, now he still has no clue. Seeing Derek again didn’t particularly made him feel like a teenager again. Of course he remembers how he felt back then, but he’s evolved and Derek isn’t the same person anymore. The attraction is still there, undeniably. Plus, Stiles has come the conclusion that Derek’s newly gained serenity, the way he’s easy around people and more trusting—it attracts Stiles even more.

Derek walks over to where Stiles is standing next to the sink and washes his hands under the faucet. Stiles stands with his back to the counter, hands on its edges and the fingers of his left hand are mere inches from Derek’s shirt.

When Derek finally meets his eye, there is a guarded expression on his face.

“I felt like it,” Derek answers slowly. Stiles doesn’t know what kind of answer he expected but it sure wasn’t this. It sounds off-hand, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“You felt like it,” Stiles echoes flatly, sudden anger flaring up somewhere in the back of his head. “So—what? You felt like kissing and I just happened to be standing right next to you, so you did the most convenient thing?”

Derek doesn’t answer.

“You gotta be shitting me. I’m not a plaything. I’m not here for yo—”

“I wanted to,” Derek interrupts him, voice calm and serious. “I wanted to kiss you. I’d wanted for a while. That’s why I did it.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Then why didn’t you...do it earlier?” Stiles asks eventually. He can’t help but wonder how things would’ve turned out if Derek hadn’t waited until the very last moment. Wonders where would it have left him, _them_.

Derek sighs and looks down to where Stiles’ hand is still resting on the edge of the counter. He puts his own hand up, placing it right next to Stiles’ and their fingers touch so, so lightly.

“I wasn’t in the right place back then,” he explains softly, tapping the tips of his fingers gently over Stiles’ hand. “And you were about to go to college. I wanted—I didn’t want to force my spiritual abysses onto you. I wanted to get better, be in a better mindset before adv—before asking, trying if you wanted to...be with me.”

“And now?”

“Now you’re here for the first time in almost four years, and it feels like you’ve never left and like I’m meeting a new person at the same time.”

Yeah. Yeah, that’s how Stiles feels too. Same, same but different. However, he can’t even guess whether this is a good thing—from Derek’s point of view—or a bad one.

Moreover, it doesn’t answer where Derek’s standing now, whether he still wants... _something_ with Stiles or not.

“So, do you still...?” He trails off, uncertain of how to phrase the question.

Derek tilts his head ever so slightly. “Honestly?” he says with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I don’t know, Stiles. You’re going back to college soon, to the other side of the country, and I don’t know when—if—you’re going to come back.”

Stiles’ heart falls.

“Hell, I don’t even know what you’re _doing_ ; what you did in the past years. You could be in a relationship for all I know. Things are different now,” Derek goes on. He looks at their hands on the counter. “Most importantly, I can’t tell for sure how _you_ feel now, or what it is that you want.”

It’s not actually a rejection, it’s not a no per se. It’s hesitance and caution. He can’t blame Derek for it, he’s got a point in all of it.

Before he can reply, there’s a loud hissing noise coming from the oven, and crack, a spark, and then the rib inside catches fire.

Oh, this is so _not_ ideal.

“Stiles,” Derek snaps beside him, pushing him away, and inches forward to turn off the oven. As if that would stop the rib from burning. Or the oven. Which is still making weird crackling noises and sends sparks flying.

Stiles turns and hurries into the basement. Ever since Scott and Stiles accidentally set the armrest of a couch on fire when they were kids, Ms McCall has kept a fire extinguisher in the basement. As a security measure. You may never know.

It’s almost comical how lost Derek looks in the kitchen, with the rib burning in the oven and the whole thing making noises like it wants to summon Satan. If there wasn’t this urgent matter at hand, Stiles would totally laugh at him. The big Alpha, completely clueless.

(It isn’t until a little while later that Stiles realizes maybe Derek had other reasons to look lost and frozen in the kitchen, and then he’s glad he didn’t say anything.)

They manage to wrestle the oven door open and Stiles extinguishes the fire quickly. Carefully, he puts the extinguisher to the ground. The rib is black and looks forlorn in the oven, and the smell is just gross.

“So, uh,” Stiles says and glances at the clock while the oven cracks loudly for the last time. One hour until everyone’s going to trickle in. “I think...our dinner just...burned.”

“No shit.”

“Lydia is gonna kill us.”

“She’ll skin us alive and then she’ll marinade us in salt and then she’ll leave us to die.”

“Trust the foodie to make a pun about food when it comes to dying.”

“Shut up.”

“I think the oven is broken now too.”

“Your perceptive abilities are mind-blowing, really.”

“I’m not the Sheriff’s son for nothing,” Stiles says loftily and Derek raises first one eyebrow and then the other. “So. I’d say we go for pizza. Pizza always works. You can’t say no to pizza.”

“This is a family dinner, Stiles,” Derek reminds him, strained.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Did you always have rib roast for family dinners?”

Derek is silent for a beat. “No.”

“And what did you eat most of the time when you had a family gathering?”

“Pizza,” Derek answers after another short pause. Stiles grins smugly.

“See,” he says and fistbumps the air. “Problem solved.”

“We’ll need a lot of pizzas,” Derek points out contemplatively, while he eyes the oven and the blackened rib roast. “Pretty sure Isaac, Scott and Boyd will each eat three.”

“Like you wouldn’t totally eat five on your own if nobody was watching.”

“I would eat six, thank you very much.”

“And you wanted to veto pizza, dude.”

It’s ridiculous how they went from touchy-feely to this in a matter of seconds. Stiles doesn’t have time to think about it now, they don’t have much time left until everyone’s going to be here, and they still have to order pizza.

“Well,” he starts when Derek keeps glance surreptitiously at the oven. “I’d say we order from different pizza places? I think it would take too long if we ordered, like, twenty pizzas from one place.”

“We don’t need twenty pizzas,” Derek mutters.

“You sure? Between the six you eat, and at least three for each of the guys, we humans need some food too,” Stiles replies and ticks it off on his fingers. Derek snorts sardonically. Stiles grabs the delivery flyers and hands some of them to Derek.

“You order from these,” he instructs him and waves with the flyers in his own hand. “I’ll cover these. I think three pizzas from each service should be enough. Oh, and get some variety in it.”

Derek waves him off dismissively before he fishes his phone out of the pocket of his pants. Stiles, in the meantime, carefully gets the burned rib roast out of the oven and makes sure everything is turned off. He sighs a little. This would have been delicious. What a shame.

He calls the delivery services and orders the pizzas. Derek’s pacing through the living room, still on the phone. Stiles puts the potatoes, that they already put into a sauce pan with some water, in the fridge after draining the water. Maybe they can use them for something else some time later.

When Derek walks back into the kitchen, Stiles says, “Aw, dude, now we can’t try your precious horseradish. Unless someone has really weird taste.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Derek snaps sullenly, and Stiles cackles.

“Don’t be so surly, Derek, it’s not your fault the rib roast got roasted,” he replies, laughing at his own pun, and Derek looks like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this. “No, seriously. I guess the oven exceeded its life expectancy. Hey, does the wine pair with pizza?”

Derek stares at him incredulously. “You want to drink the wine with the pizza?”

Stiles shrugs noncommittally. “Well, you know, celebrational purpose and stuff. Besides, it would be waste not to drink it.”

“It’s not like it’s going to go off,” Derek argues but he doesn’t seem exactly put out about the idea of drinking the wine.

“We could play a drinking game, you know,” Stiles suggests and claps his hands together. “While we wait for the pizza.”

“No,” Derek says shaking his head.

“You’re such a party pooper.”

“Your dad is going to be here too. I’m not going to explain why you’re drunk before the evening even started.”

“One, I am a responsible adult so Dad can’t give you or me crap for it. Two, what makes you think I’d be drunk?” Stiles counters indignantly.

“I don’t know if you can hold your liquor,” Derek answers casually. “I haven’t seen you drink before.”

“How much does it take for you to get drunk?” Stiles asks curiously.

Derek shrugs. “A whole lot more than for you, that’s for sure. I also have to drink fast and much in a short amount of time.”

“I’ll get you to drink with me some time,” Stiles promises, and Derek smirks at him, like he can’t wait for Stiles to make good on it.

The pizzas arrive shortly after, and Stiles busies himself with loading the pieces into plates while Derek answers the door and pays for the food.

Scott and Allison are the first ones to arrive.

“Dude,” Scott says after greeting Derek at the door and stepping into the kitchen. “Why is there so much pizza?”

“We, uh—well, your oven kinda...exploded,” Stiles explains, “While the rib roast was still in it. Sorry about that. So...we decided to order pizza.”

“Are you guys okay?” Allisons asks concerned, glancing at the oven and then back at Stiles.

“Yeah—yes,” Stiles assures her with a small smile. “The rib roast’s the only thing that got demolished in the process.”

Scott doesn’t look too put out about it. “Well. You can’t say no to pizza.”

He fistbumps Stiles. Allison sighs and then helps Stiles setting up the table while Scott puts the last delivered pizza on a plate and Derek gets the bottle opener for the wine.

Stiles bumps Allison’s shoulder with his own. “Sorry about the dinner.”

She smiles warmly at him, nudges his shoulder right back, and says, “Honestly, I don’t care what there is for dinner. I’m just happy to have everyone here, around a table.”

“It’s a shame, though,” Stiles points out.

“Yeah,” Allison agrees.

“Derek doesn’t get to show off that ridiculously overpriced horseradish he made me get.” 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek warns sharply from somewhere behind him. Allison and Scott look slightly confused while Stiles can’t hold in his cackle.

Ms McCall sighs long-sufferingly when she gets home and they tell her about the oven but then suggests that Scott and Allison can buy a new one from their wedding money.

Lydia looks like she’s torn between wanting to cry, scream herself hoarse and wanting to torturously slowly peel the flesh from both Derek and Stiles’ bones. She’s silent the entire time, though. Stiles suspects the battle of emotions is so strong that she cannot even manage to get a word out.

Jackson just mutters, “Way to go, _morons_.”

Erica stage whispers to Isaac, “I’m surprised they got anything done at all,” and Isaac nods solemnly in agreement.

Boyd simply tells Derek that everything’s in place for the wedding, and that he’s starving. Then he goes to grab a beer.

Dad has this look on his face like he’s crowing inwardly about the pizza while Stiles grits his teeth. Of course his father would be all in for the junk food. Stiles will have to make sure he gets no cake tomorrow.

Mr Argent brings along this mouth-watering strawberry tiramisu which ends up in Stiles, Scott and Isaac screaming, “DIBS!” on top of their lungs simultaneously. Allison’s dad maneuvers past their grabby hands into the kitchen, kisses Allison hello on the cheek and puts the dish away. Stiles doesn’t fail to notice that he looks surprisingly at ease with being in a house with a bunch of werewolves. And Derek doesn’t even tense up in the slightest.

Stiles remembers things have smoothed out a little during junior and senior year of high school but still the hunters and werewolves were not that comfortable around each other back then. This development is another thing he’s missed during his time away.

They all sit down around the table eventually. It’s loud and animated. Scott and Jackson end up butting heads over who gets the last slice of pepperoni pizza when Boyd sweeps in and just takes it. Mr Argent is discussion oven models with Ms McCall, Erica licks the grease off her fingers and Allison is engaged in a conversation with Isaac.

Stiles catches Dad, who’s sitting next to him on his left, talking to Derek. They chat about Dad’s work, about what exactly happened with the rib roast, and his father assures Derek he’s perfectly fine with pizza. Of course he is. Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes. His father goes over to ask about Derek’s work—and Stiles perks up at that.

Scott told him a while ago that Derek more or less opened a business but that he hadn’t given any more details. Stiles has forgotten about it until now.

Apparently, Derek’s building furniture. Like, by hand. Himself. Alone. Really expensive furniture from what it sounds like, and Derek says he has some orders he’s currently working on. It’s going well.

Stiles’ eyes drop to Derek’s hands. And of course his mind immediately wanders off to the porny section of his brain and starts wondering how else Derek could use these hands of his to good use, and that it would most likely feel phenomenal. He ducks his head when Derek glances his way and turns away to let himself be drawn into a conversation with Boyd.

It’s only a little past ten when they end the night. Lydia usher Allison and Scott out of the house; they’re going back to the manor.

“Stiles,” Lydia says at the door and turns around to him. “Be at the manor at nine sharp. Don’t forget the rings. _Do not get involved in any kind of accident_.”

“I will do my best,” he promises with a wry smile. She tilts her chin up to look at him with narrowed eyes before she turns on her heel and follows Jackson to his car.

Erica, Isaac and Boyd scatter home after helping to clean up. Mr Argent left with Allison and Scott, and Stiles’ dad is waiting up for him.

Derek walks with them to the cruiser that’s parked on the roadside a little bit down the street, even though the Camaro is parked in the driveway of Scott’s house.

“See you tomorrow, then,” Derek says while Dad unlocks the car.

“Uh,” Stiles replies intelligently. “Yeah.”

It’s kinda awkward, stilted, and Stiles has to resist the urge to lean in and—break this uncomfortable nodding-and-not-touching thing that they have going on right now. Instead, he rocks from the balls of his feet to his heels and back again.

Derek nods in Dad’s direction. “Sheriff.”

“Goodnight, Derek.”

Derek turns and leaves, car keys jingling in his hand. Stiles slips into the cruiser and buckles up his belt.

“Is there anything I need to know?” his father asks as they stop at a red light.

“About what?” Stiles blinks at him in confusion.

“About you and Derek,” Dad elaborates with an eyeroll, like it was obvious what he meant. Like there even was anything to know about.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. They haven’t exactly cleared up what’s going on between them or if anything is going to happen. Derek didn’t say he wasn’t interested anymore. He didn’t say he wanted to be with Stiles either.

“There’s nothing to know,” Stiles deflects eventually with a shrug. Dad shoots him a doubting look. “No, seriously. Nothing.”

“I’m neither blind nor an idiot, Stiles. He’s walked you to the car,” Dad says with no little amount of irritation. “And at the car you two looked like you wanted to—well, let’s not get into details.”

Stiles snorts. “Nothing is going on, Dad. Don’t you think I would tell you if it was?”

“Do you want something to be going on, though, don’t you?”

“Do we have to talk about this?” Stiles groans in exasperation and thumps his head against the rest behind him.

“I’m just asking, son,” Dad says and thoughtfully adds, “I simply think it’s striking that even after all this time you two seem to be so...intrigued by each other.”

“Are you subtly trying to tell me you’d like for Derek to become your son-in-law?”

“I’m subtly trying to tell you that I want you to be happy, and if Derek’s the guy who makes you happy then you should go for it instead of recoiling.”

“I’m not recoiling. You make it sound so easy but it’s more difficult than that.”

“Sometimes it’s easier than you think. It’s just your head that makes it seem complicated,” Dad says quietly.

They drop the conversation after that, and Stiles wonders if maybe his father is right. He turns his head to the window and closes his eyes to let the low hum of the car lull him to sleep.

***

Stiles walks into Scott’s changing room—that somehow became the meeting point for all of his groomsmen over the course of the morning—to find Derek struggling with his bowtie. Lydia’s insisted that every bowtie isn’t a pre-tied one, and she slapped the one she’d promised Stiles into his palm the second he set foot into the manor.

“So,” Stiles says smirking. “You know the difference between a suit and a tux but you don’t know how to bind a bowtie.”

Derek makes a distressed noise glowering at him. “Are you going to mock me or are you going to get Lydia here so she can tie it?”

Stiles shrugs nonchalantly, hands in the pockets of his dress pants, as he swiftly walks over to where Derek is standing in front of the mirror, hands still on the bowtie.

He gently bats Derek’s hands away from the loose ends and ties it up with smooth movements. It’s a hardship, actually, to keep looking at his hands; to not lift his gaze to meet Derek’s eyes but he manages.

“Surprise,” he says lowly when he’s done and steps away from Derek. “I know how to tie them.”

Derek is only in pants and the pristine dress shirt, cuffs still unbuttoned, and his vest and jacket are lying on the bed. Stiles realizes somewhat belatedly that he’s never seen Derek in a suit—or tux—before, and he’s not yet fully dressed and it makes Stiles’ mouth water already.

“Thank you,” Derek says and turns to look into the mirror, fingers touching the bowtie. He catches Stiles’ eyes through the mirror. Stiles swallows against the sudden dryness in his mouth while Derek grabs his vest, slips his arms through the sleeves and starts buttoning it up.

“Don’t forget your cuffs,” Stiles reminds him. He saunters over to the bed as Derek closes his cuffs with a sheepish smiles on his face, and takes the jacket. Derek turns back to the mirror, checking the vest when Stiles steps behind him holding up the jacket for Derek to slip his arms in.

It was an innocent gesture but when Stiles meets Derek’s gaze in the mirror again and Derek slowly pushes his arms into the sleeves, it’s kind of intimate and...strangely erotic. In a way that makes Stiles want to undress Derek right here and now, peeling one piece of clothes off his body after another, trail the tips of his fingers over exposed skin, suck and bite at his neck, lick into his mouth—

“Stiles,” Derek says in a low, cracked voice, and his pupils look dilated. Stiles clears his throat, the tone in Derek’s voice enough of a warning to pull him back, and smoothes out the fabric on Derek’s shoulders with his hands.

“I’ll just—” he steps over the nightstand and takes out the little jewelry box with the rings inside out of the top drawer. He puts it into the pocket of his pants and waves awkwardly before he slips out the door again. Stiles doesn’t allow himself to take a deep breath until he’s downstairs and out in the garden, standing beneath the wedding arch. He admires how carefully the flowers and pale pink roses are weaved into it, little pearly chains snaking around there too.

Isaac strolls up next to him, hands in his pocket pants. “Are you nervous?”

“I’m just the best man,” Stiles answers, chuckling a little. “Not the one who gets married today.”

“Scott’s getting _married_.” There is so much awe in Isaac’s voice, and Stiles grins, because yeah—that’s how he feels too.

“Dude, _right_?” he says and looks around the seats.

“Who do you think is next?”

Stiles shrugs, clueless. “My best guess is Erica and Boyd.”

Isaac lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought Jackson and Lydia.”

“Nah,” Stiles shakes his head and grins up at him. “Lydia wants to conquer the world before she settles down.”

Isaac laughs quietly at that.

***

“I think there’s a hole in my pants,” Scott says while he pats himself down in front of the mirror. They’re in his dressing room and it’s fifteen minutes until the ceremony.

“I looked, Scott, there isn’t a hole. I even frisked it, dude, I give you my word there is no hole in your pants,” Stiles promises.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Scott whimpers pathetically, and Stiles realizes that this is probably the closest Scott will get to freaked out. Stiles turns him around by the shoulders and cuffs him a little harder than strictly necessary; but then again it’s not like it’s really going to hurt Scott (it hurts Stiles much more).

“Scott, buddy,” he says slowly. “Repeat after me: There is no hole in my pants.”

“There is no hole in my pants,” Scott echoes obediently and draws in a deep breath. “There is no hole in my pants.”

“No holes,” Stiles says again while he carefully arranges the pocket square on Scott’s jacket. “No holes anywhere. Don’t freak out, okay? You’ve got this. Leave everything else to me.”

“Did you prepare your speech?”

“I told you I’m gonna improvise.”

“Stiles, I swear—”

“When Scott and I were in fourth grade he proposed to me—”

“Go get Isaac. I’m making Isaac my best man.”

Stiles laughs and pats Scott on the chest. Scott rolls his eyes but pulls him into a short hug. There’s a knock on the door and after a short pause, Lydia walks in. She’s in her bridesmaid dress, a pale green gown, and there’s a braid around her head like a hairband.

“The bride wants to see you,” she says to Stiles as she makes her way across the room to examine Scott for the last time before the ceremony.

Stiles claps Scott on the arm and leaves to check on Allison.

Allison looks radiant and beautiful when she turns around as Stiles steps into her room. Her hair is done up but one thick strand is curled and falls over her right shoulder. There is a silver leaf headpiece on top of her hair. She smiles at him, tugging nervously at the skirt of her dress.

“I think I want to elope with you,” Stiles admits, stricken, and Allison’s laugh is clear and amused.

“How’s Scott doing?” she asks, kneading her hands together.

“If he asks if his pants have a hole in it you tell him no,” Stiles instructs. Allison quirks her eyebrows quizzically. Stiles shrugs and explains, “He thought he has a hole in his pants but rest assured, he does not.”

“I can’t believe the wedding is today,” she confesses quietly while Stiles steps closer to her. “We’ve spent so much time planning the whole thing and now—now it’s here.”

He puts an arm around her, pulls her to his side. “It’s fine,” he tells her. Allison looks up to him, blinking tears away. “You and Scott are going to be amazing, you hear me?”

She smiles warmly, snaking both her arms around his waist. Her breath comes out a little shuddery but Stiles figures she’s more excited than anything else. They stay like that, quiet, for a few minutes, until there is a knock on the door, and Allison answers to come in.

Stiles expects Lydia but it’s Derek who strolls into the room, a long and slender box in hand. He seems a little surprised to see Stiles but doesn’t say anything.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he apologizes to Allison, opening the box to reveal a delicate silver necklace with tiny, tiny pearls weaved into a complex but fragile-looking pattern. “Something old and something borrowed.”

Allison’s fingers ghost over the necklace in reverence and she looks up at Derek with a soft smile. “Thank you,” she says earnestly. Derek smiles back slowly before he takes the necklace out, handing the box to Stiles, and puts it around her neck.

Stiles stares at the necklace, wondering about its history; what it means to Derek, what it meant to his family and who it belonged to.

There’s another knock on the door and Mr Argent enters. His eyes travel from Allison, who’s still standing close to Derek, to Derek himself, to the necklace and back again. He doesn’t say anything, his face does not give away what might be going through his head.

“It’s time,” he simply says after a beat. Derek nods and saunters out of the room quickly. Stiles squeezes one of Allison’s hands shortly, smiling encouragingly at her, before he turns and leaves.

Scott is already waiting in front of his room, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket. Lydia totters towards them in her heels and ushers them out and to the wedding arch. The guests are already seated, talking to each other. Ms McCall is engaged in a conversation with the priest, Isaac is bickering with Jackson again while Derek and Boyd look pretty put out.

Ms McCall hugs Scott when they step up to the arch, kisses him on the cheek, and Dad claps him on the shoulder before they both sit down in the front row. Scott stands on the right and starts fidgeting, tugging on his cuffs again, brushing over the fabric of his tux, scratching the back of his neck. Lydia snaps at him and Scott’s hands fall to his sides.

Stiles puts a hand between his shoulder blades. “Breathe, buddy,” he says quietly, feeling Scott relax beneath his fingers. Behind him Boyd tells Jackson and Isaac to pull their crap together and shut the fuck up, this is a wedding and not a pissing contest. Boyd is his hero, he really is. Derek snorts quietly, a little like he’s a dad who’s happy not having to deal with the bullshit his kids pull. Stiles shoots him a look over his shoulder.

Everyone falls silent then, when quiet music starts and Allison appears down the aisle with her dad on her right side, a bouquet of white flowers in her left hand.

Stiles can see the tension seeping out of her the second she sees Scott, and the wide, blinding smile on her face speaks volumes of how happy she is in this very moment. He pries his eyes away from her to watch Scott. Stiles has seen Allison already, but Scott...

Scott looks like nothing else exists in the world right now but Allison. He looks happy, overwhelmed, and he covers his mouth with his hands, tears in his eyes. Stiles wonders faintly what it feels like, what it feels like being in Scott’s position right now; this raw bliss. He casts a look over his shoulder at Derek, without even really meaning to, and Derek is looking at Scott too until he notices Stiles’ gaze on him. They trade looks for only a second but the expression in Derek’s eyes pierces right through Stiles’ chest, and nestles somewhere deep behind his heart before he realizes it.

By the time Scott and Allison both tell each other their wedding vows, Lydia looks like she’s about to start crying any second now, Ms McCall is carefully dabbing away the wetness around her eyes and Mr Argent kinda looks constipated in a way that he doesn’t seem to know whether to bawl or to smile.

Stiles presents the wedding rings and watches how Scott slides the band slowly over Allison’s finger with a dreamy expression on his face; watches Allison how she slips the ring on Scott’s finger, her hands caressing his gently. It’s devastatingly sweet. Stiles makes a mental note to pay a visit to his dentist to check for cavities.

Scott and Allison walk the aisle back down to _The Winner Takes It All_. There isn’t anything more fitting, Stiles figures.

Jackson ends up being the one who catches the bride’s flowers looking like he tries really hard not to gloat and Stiles laughs a whole ten minutes about it. Lydia tells him not to get ideas, to which Jackson just counters with what kind of dumbfounded idiot would want to marry a witch like her anyway. Lydia just smiles sweetly at that, and Jackson’s face goes all soft and gooey and _loving_ , it’s kind of like watching a metamorphosis.

Stiles actually does improvise his speech. He tried preparing it, writing it down but it hadn’t worked out. It didn’t seem right to him, he felt like he could say so much and not enough, so he decided he would just go with the flow of the moment.

Everyone is sitting around the the U-shaped line of tables, watching him intently when he gets up and asks for everybody’s attention.

“When Scott and I were in fourth grade,” he begins and Scott groans making everybody laugh. Stiles grins a little, shoving the hand that isn’t holding his glass of champagne into the pocket of his pants to keep it from flailing around. “When Scott and I were in fourth grade, he said to me he’d marry me when we’re older, because he was one hundred percent convinced there wasn’t any girl in the entire world that could live up to me.”

Scott is hiding his face in Allison’s neck while she gently pats his hair with a bright and amused smile. Some of the guests laugh and Stiles sees Erica whisper something to Derek, and the other werewolves all snort in unison. Derek ducks his head hiding a small grin.

“Well, I was pretty psyched about it to be honest,” Stiles continues. He hears Jackson mumble, “I have no doubts about that,” and Lydia elbows him into the side. It makes him grin wider.

“When Scott met Allison, I realised that was the moment he broke up our engagement. It was okay, though, because Allison...” Stiles sighs wistfully and looks at her. “Allison is everything and more I could ever wish for Scott. Their story is a little bit like a Disney fairy tale, you know, with all the obstacles and misunderstanding and evil villains—”

He gets sharp huffs from the small circle of adepts while the rest of the guests look both confused and amused at the same time.

“—but in the end they do get each other and the hard times have made them stronger, made them realise how deeply they feel and care about each other—and basically, the outcome was worth the fight.”

Scott kisses Allison’s cheek while they link their fingers.

“It’s a gift, a...blessing to find that kind of companionship, commitment...to find that kind of unadulterated, unconditional _love_ ,” Stiles says conclusively, raising his glass. “Scott and Allison are the lucky ones, they have found it, and there’s nothing in the world that could possible break them apart. Cheers to that.”

There’s a round of agreeing words going through the crowd before everyone tips back the champagne. Stiles sits back down, next to Ms McCall who pats him on the shoulder with a smile and shiny eyes. Scott flings one of the decorative blossoms at his head.

Erica leans over to him, resting her chin on the ball of her hand. “I can’t believe I’m saying this—and that this is an actual thing—but you and Scott are even sappier than Scott and Allison, and if it wasn’t so...pathetic, it would be an achievement.”

“You’re just jealous,” Stiles says loftily and waves a hand. “That I got proposed to before you.”

“Look how that worked out.”

“Well, Scott and I wouldn’t have worked out in marriage anyway, so I’m not too bummed out about it.”

“So, you gonna go after groomsmen to soothe your bleeding heart?”

Isaac chokes on his drink, and from his other side, down the table, Lydia snorts. Derek, who’s sitting next to Erica, looks like he bit down on something disgustingly sour. And, Stiles notices when he can’t pry his eyes away from Derek, he deliberately avoids meeting Stiles’ gaze.

“I don’t have a bleeding heart,” Stiles manages eventually and turns back to Erica. “I handed Scott over to Allison’s very competent care, so I have nothing to worry about. But I do have a hot date with Jackson later, yes.”

“Over my dead body,” Jackson butts in.

“We’ve discussed this already, honey, I’m not into those kinds of role plays.”

Ms McCall just covers her eyes with her hand shaking her head and Mr Argent, sitting right next to Allison, looks like he wants to bleach his brain to forget that he heard that. Dad downs his champagne in one gulp, earning himself a disapproving look from Stiles.

He claps Stiles on the back, a lot more shy from playful than Stiles would like, and points out, “Son, maybe this isn’t an appropriate conversation at the table of a wedding reception.”

“Jackson started his dirty kink talk, not me.”

Dad sighs long-sufferingly before he waves one of the waiters over to refill his glass.

Scott waltzes with Allison, their first dance, and they move smoothly and gracefully, both glowing with happiness and pride. Jackson and Lydia join them shortly after, Erica and Boyd too. Mr Argent asks Ms McCall for a dance. Isaac is making mooneyes at a young woman, one of Allison’s friends, Stiles thinks.

“You wanna dance, kiddo?” Dad asks.

“You offering?” Stiles asks in return unfolding his napkin to fold it differently again.

“No but I spy with my little eye someone who looks like he’s waiting to be asked to dance,” Dad replies, casually leaning back in his seat to unblock the view of Derek, sitting at the end of the table looking bored for all it’s worth.

Stiles squirms in his seat. “I don’t know, Dad,” he protests weakly. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Dad arches his eyebrows in the most judgemental way possible, it’s ridiculous. “You’re at the front when it comes to battling nightmarish creatures but you’re crippled with fear by the thought of asking Derek to dance?” His voice is low and incredulous. Stiles can only guess if Derek’s picked up his name and listened in.

“I’m not crippled with fear, jeez, Dad,” Stiles groans quietly.

“Plus,” Dad adds, ignoring Stiles completely, “You have the loosest mouth when it comes to talking about...sex practices at a wedding reception—which isn’t exactly standard—but asking that one person you’re infatuated with to dance—which is actually encouraged here—has you shrinking into your shell.”

Stiles opens his mouth to retort but closes it again when nothing comes out.

“You’re standing in your own way, kid,” his father concludes, claps him on the shoulder and gets up. He takes over dancing with Ms McCall, and Mr Argent goes over to talk to one of his distant relatives.

Stiles is finishing what feels like his tenth piece of cake some time later. The music changes to something sweet and slow, and Stiles sees Derek leading Allison back onto the dance floor, making her twirl under his arm once before stepping closer, taking over the lead. Turns out Derek’s a wicked good slow dancer.

Isaac drops down next to him—he seating scattered now, after the formal part of the reception. “Why are you sulking?” he asks before he takes a swig of his beer.

“I’m not sulking,” Stiles grouches indignantly. “Why would you even think that?”

“Maybe because you look like a disgruntled deer left alone in the woods,” Isaac answers playfully, shit-eating smirk firm on his face. Stiles sneers at him.

Allison leans into Derek, faces close and open. She laughs at something he says. It’s easy. Derek’s expression is soft and warm, he’s smiling at her, and nobody would ever guess that he didn’t trust her and she tried to kill him only a few years back. They look so natural together, like they’ve known each other all their lives; were the closest of friends. Stiles feels a pang of jealousy. He wishes he was that close with Derek too; wishes Derek would just walk up to _him_ and ask him for a dance; wishes Derek would laugh and smile with him; wishes Derek would hold him close like this, eyes tender and attentive.

“When did they become so close?” he asks Isaac and nods towards Derek and Allison. Isaac follows his line of sight, smirking even wider now.

“Gradual,” Isaac replies then, subdued and thoughtful. “She earned his trust, and he earned hers. It were literal baby steps but...look where it’s gotten them.”

Stiles doesn’t get the chance to reply when Erica’s golden locks fall over his head.

“Dance with me, Stilinski,” she orders and pulls his chair back effortlessly.

“I wasn’t aware it’s ladies’ choice,” he says as she grabs his hand and drags him off to the dance floor.

She flicks her hair over her shoulder and pulls him close, using her freaking werewolf strength. “Please,” she counters with a sarcastic twist to her mouth. “It’s always ladies’ choice.”

He’s not surprised at all that she takes the lead.

“That was a beautiful speech earlier, by the way,” she admits with a smile. “I should consider making you my best man too if I ever get married.”

“I’m honored,” Stiles says grinning back at her. “And I’m glad you liked it. What did you say to Derek?”

She tilts her head contemplatively. “Nothing.”

“Really? That’s what you settle on?”

Erica only smirks wickedly at him and then changes her position when the music changes, a tango this time. Stiles kind of regrets the dancing class he took a while ago but it’s too late to back out now anyway. Erica tugs him close, fitting against him, and lets him take the lead.

“My _god_ ,” Erica breathes after the dance and fans air at her face with one of her hands. “You couldn’t possibly get any hotter.”

Stiles can feel the tips of his ears burn up. Derek is staring at him from across the room.

***

He doesn’t know exactly how he ends up being tipsy. It’s most probably Lydia’s fault, because sometime long after midnight she came to him with a bottle of champagne and made him drink with her.

“I c—I wept like a baby after the ceremony,” she manages to say.

“I didn’t see you—do th-that,” Stiles answers.

Lydia snorts a little choked off and waves her hand, almost knocking down their glasses. “I went to the bathroom.”

Stiles bursts out laughing at that, covering his face with both his hands. “Naturally,” he heaves out.

“I want what they have,” Lydia says suddenly, sitting up straight like someone’s poked her side.

They’re among the last people in the large room. Scott and Allison disappeared a while ago, most of the guests left too, taking cabs back into town, because the manor doesn’t have enough rooms for everyone.

“You do have that,” Stiles assures her with a glance at Jackson who’s talking to—someone.

Lydia looks at him. Her hair looks slightly dishevelled and she has this look on her face like she doesn’t quite believe him.

“You do,” he insists. “You don’t have to be...lovey-dovey to be happy and ridiculously in love. And just because Jackson’s a douche to everyone doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you with everything he’s got. Well, you know, he’s not always a douche. I can’t believe I’m saying that.”

Lydia smacks a kiss on his cheek and grins, telling him, “You have lipstick on your cheek.”

Stiles smirks a little as she reaches over to their second still half-full bottle of champagne to refill their glasses. Jackson grabs her wrist before she can pour something, takes the bottle from her hand and sets it down.

“I think that’s enough,” he says, voice gentle but firm, and Lydia sighs wistfully. “Come on,” Jackson continues and draws her chair away, pulling her into his arms.

“Good night, Stiles,” she says and waves. Jackson picks her up bridal style. Lydia hides her face in his neck, laughing delighted.

“Night,” Stiles mutters after them. He scrubs his face, looks around the room. There are Boyd and Isaac sitting a little far off, talking quietly but seriously, as it seems. Everyone else he knows has already left, so Stiles heads for his room, not wanting to interrupt Isaac and Boyd. He takes the bottle of champagne with him.

He’s got his hand already on the handle of the door to his room when his mind subtly supplies that he’s drunk enough to go to Derek and talk to him, make him understand that—that Stiles still wants; he wants to tell Derek how he feels, that he they’re on the same page.

Stiles makes it up the stairs to Derek’s room and takes a deep breath before he knocks on the door.

Derek looks a little wary when he opens the door. He’s lost the vest and his jacket, sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, the bowtie is untied, hanging loosely around his neck and the three top buttons of his shirt are open. He looks so goddamn edible. Stiles swallows against the dryness in his mouth.

“Hold this for a second please,” he says to Derek and pushes the bottle into his hand. Derek seems a little perplexed but grabs the bottle nevertheless.

Stiles grabs the loose ends of his tie and yanks Derek closer, slotting their mouths together in a sloppy kiss. Derek’s reaction is immediate, he kisses right back like this doesn’t come as a surprise to him, and Stiles sighs against his lips.

They stumble back into the room. Derek’s mouth is hot against Stiles’, he kisses hard and desperate, and it makes Stiles’ knees go weak. He licks over Derek’s bottom lip, hungry, wanting, asking for permission, and Derek lets him in. Stiles makes a noise at the back of his throat when Derek’s tongue moves against his, enticing, challenging, engaging. It’s frantic and all-encompassing; it sends sparks down Stiles’ spine, makes him shudder and gasp, and Derek’s arm snakes around him, holding, assuring, soothing. Stiles hears a clanking noise—the bottle, he realizes—and then Derek’s gripping his upper arms, pushing back.

He’s breathless, his lips look red and a little swollen; hair dishevelled where Stiles has been carding his hands through it.

“No,” Derek says, voice raw but stern. “We’re not doing this now.”

Stiles lets go of him immediately, feels like he can’t back up fast enough, and it’s like a blow to the gut. “Sorry,” he mutters, trying to curl into himself. “I’m sorry.”

Derek sighs a little stepping up to him. They’re close but not touching. “You’re drunk,” Derek points out quietly.

Oh.

“I want this, Derek,” Stiles blurts. He’s drunk, yeah, but he’s lucid. College has given him plenty of experience with drinking, he knows his boundaries. He’s not smashed, not at all. “I want you. I want to be with you. When you said—when you said it’s like nothing’s changed but different at the same time...I know what you mean. I mean it, Derek, I do want to be with you. Screw the time, screw the distance—I—you make me crazy.”

Derek stares silently at him, eyes hooded and thoughtful. It feels like long, long minutes pass without anything happening until Derek slides his hands up to Stiles’ face, cups it gently, running his thumbs carefully over Stiles’ cheekbones. He leans forward and kisses Stiles’ forehead so, so softly.

Stiles relaxes in an instant, tension seeping away as quickly as it came, leaving him exhausted. He’s pliant when Derek’s gingerly pushes him towards the bed, lets himself be guided by Derek’s firm hands.

“I wanted to dance with you today,” he admits tiredly when Derek sits him down. He carefully slides the jacket over Stiles’ shoulders, and Stiles knows that there is no intent behind this but just helping him out of his clothes. Derek looks up to meet his gaze, eyes intense even in the dim light of the room. “I think I chickened out of asking you. I don’t know why—I—I think there were too many people around and I—”

Derek leans in close, his cheek against Stiles’, and his lips brush lightly against Stiles’ ear when he promises quietly, “We’ll dance some other time.”

Stiles smiles, feels the warmth at Derek’s words spread through his body, embracing him. It’s a much, much better feeling than he imagined.

Derek guides him underneath the covers, tucks him in even. It’s ridiculous and sweet and cheesy, and Stiles loves all about it. He falls asleep to Derek carding his hand through Stiles’ hair.

***

Stiles slowly blinks awake, writhing on the bed a little in pleasure. He rolls over to the other side where the sheets smell of Derek. Derek who’s currently not in the room. Stiles sits up and takes a look around. Sunlight streams in through the windows, illuminating the room with warm tones.

Derek strolls in, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, and Stiles makes a happy noise, giving him an appreciative once-over.

“Good morning,” he says delighted.

Derek rolls his eyes playfully. “Morning,” he replies. “How are you feeling?”

“I...” Stiles trails off and narrows his eyes at Derek’s reserved expression. “I think I would feel pretty phenomenal if you came over and kissed me.”

Derek doesn’t move. It’s a little bit depressing, to be honest. Stiles sighs.

“Look, dude, I remember last night, okay?” he explains. “I meant what I said. It hasn’t changed since. I want this. I want you. I want to try it despite the distance. I’m almost done with college anyway, and I am planning on coming back. I miss you guys.”

Derek is silent for a beat. “You need a shower,” he comments eventually before he turns and heads back into the bathroom.

Stiles gapes after him. This wasn’t exactly the kind of answer he expected, so he hurries to scramble after Derek.

“I don’t even know why I want to put up with you,” Stiles complains. “You’re the worst.”

“I do my best,” Derek counters loftily, stripping out of his underwear casually as you like, and Stiles’ mouth goes suddenly bone-dry again. Stiles curses under his breath while shimmying out of his own boxer briefs. He steps up to Derek under the spray, moaning softly when the warm water hits his skin.

“How is that almost every sound you make sounds so pornographic?” Derek asks, looking like he tries to solve a riddle he’s working on for ever. Stiles grins wolfishly and tips his head back to expose his neck, sighing softly against the sensation when water runs down his skin, making him feel good and relaxed.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Derek grits out, the ‘little shit’ at the end is heavily implied. Stiles grins wider still. It’s very delighting how Derek reacts to him, and Stiles likes that he makes him feel that way.

Derek grabs him, pulls him close and mouths sinfully teasingly at Stiles’ jaw. “You make me crazy too.”

He bites gingerly at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw and it’s enough to make him shiver. Derek brushes his lips against Stiles’ mouth, carefully, hesitantly, and backs away when Stiles tries to slot their mouths together. There’s a wicked grin on Derek’s face when he sees Stiles’ indignant expression. He ducks his head, licks a hot trail over Stiles’ collarbones, sucks at the skin between them. He bites gently up Stiles’ neck, kisses the spot over his pulse point, and it’s enough to make Stiles gasp and moan and clutch at Derek’s shoulders.

Derek’s hands slip around him, splaying out over the small of his back and over his right shoulder blade, warm and strong. Stiles whimpers when Derek bites at the junction of his neck and shoulder, harder now but not painfully so. It still seems to make most of his blood rush to his cock.

He’s panting by the time Derek finally, finally kisses him, deep and urgent, slow and unhurried. Stiles groans when Derek pushes his thigh between his legs, grinds down on it and grins, satisfied, when he feels Derek’s dick straining against his hip.

Stiles drags his face up Derek’s, tugging tenderly at his bottom lip with his teeth, and Derek nips at his chin, kisses the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve missed you.” Derek says it like it’s a secret, like he’s revealing something big; says it reverently and a little bit shy. Stiles’ heart feels too big for his chest. He buries his hands in Derek’s hair, pulls him closer still and puts his mouth to Derek’s. He kisses him voluptuously, like there’s no tomorrow, like this is what he’s been waiting for all along.

Stiles drags his lips over Derek’s stubble, likes the sensation of it. It makes goosebumps rise on his skin. He bites and sucks at Derek’s neck, kisses down to his shoulders and collarbones, letting his hands wander over Derek’s skin. His fingers skit fleetingly but purposefully over Derek’s nipples, making him gasp harshly. Stiles absorbs the sound greedily.

Derek pulls him back up, hands in Stiles’ hair, and pushes him back against the tiles. Stiles hisses at the cold sensation but moans lewdly when Derek bites at his bottom lip, smooths over it with his tongue.

He’s achingly hard, and his cock slaps against his stomach, precome slicking his skin and the hairs running down from his navel.

Derek grips Stiles’ thighs and guides them around his waist. Stiles obliques, hooking his ankles together, and throws his head back when Derek’s dick aligns with his, hot and hard and throbbing. He chokes back a groan as Derek latches onto his skin, sucking, biting and licking down the tendon of his neck.

Stiles is trembling. This is all too much, it’s been awhile since he last felt like this. Derek’s making his skin crawl in all the best ways, makes him shudder and squeeze his eyes.

“This feels so good,” he gasps breathlessly, kisses Derek briefly. “You feel so good.”

Derek smiles, bright and happy. Stiles’ mouth opens on a soundless groan when Derek wraps a hand around them both, slowly starting to jerk them off, and deliberately rolls his hips against Stiles. It’s so hot, so overwhelming, and Stiles almost bangs his head against the tiles. Derek smothers another groan with a deep kiss, licks into Stiles’ mouth and circles his tongue just as he thumbs over the tip of Stiles’ dick.

“Derek—” Stiles’ voice cracks, trails off into a throaty and raw moan. He wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders, get his lips on his neck and _bites_. Derek’s grips tightens around them both, moving faster, and not as lazily as before. He leans his cheek against Stiles’ temple, breathes heavily.

“Come on, Stiles,” he urges, voice raw and low, flicks his hand in a way that makes Stiles jerk, and then again, “Come for me.”

Stiles’ toes curl, his muscles strain and he comes so hard no sound rolls over his tongue. Waves of pure bliss roll over him as he spills all over Derek and himself. Derek follows right after, hot spurts of come landing on Stiles’ skin.

He feels wrecked and blissed out, better than he has in a long time. Derek leans his forehead against Stiles’, a warm, soft smiles on his lips.

“That was...mind-melting,” Stiles eventually manages. Derek chuckles, small and sheepish, brushes his lips sweetly against Stiles’ and kisses him softly.

“You are mind-melting,” Derek replies easily before he carefully lowers Stiles back onto his feet. “Always knew you are.”

Stiles ducks his head and clings to Derek, enjoys the warmth of his body against Stiles’.

They shower eventually, trade lazy kisses during and after, and Stiles takes his time to mess around with Derek’s hair, making it stick into different directions. He manages to snap a photo with his phone (he’s sneaky okay, and this is revenge). He manages to lock his phone before Derek can get his hands on it and laughs unrestrainedly, because Derek looks like a wet, disgruntled cat.

He walks down to his room to get his spare clothes. Dad is already up and eyes him like he knows exactly what happened but stays silent.

Derek meets him back in the big room where there’s breakfast being dished out. Scott and Allison are already there, looking fresh and happy and bright. Isaac looks a little sleepy still and rubs at his eyes while Erica is chattering away at him.

Stiles gets some breakfast, steals an egg off Derek’s plate and grins when Derek glares at him.

He sinks down next to Scott and shows him the picture of Derek. They howl with laughter, so hard that they stop making sounds all together after a few minutes. Derek, for all the world, looks like he wants to disappear into thin air.

Erica heads him off a little while later, when they pack up, ready to go back to Beacon Hills. “So, you’ve gone after a groomsman after all, huh?”

“Oh my _god_.”

“Got some and got it good,” she continues with a wolfish grin—he doesn’t miss that she phrases it not as a question and wonders if she’d listened in. “Don’t worry, Stiles, I didn’t eavesdrop,” Erica says as if she was reading his mind. “It’s easy to guess from that dopey expression both of you have stapled to your faces.”

“I can’t help it,” Stiles says with a shrug and grins broadly at her. He looks over his shoulder when there’s a yowl from inside the house.

Turns out Derek’s shown everybody a photo of Stiles—and old one, from when he was still in high school. He’s asleep, head hanging face-down off the armrest of some couch, a string of drool dangling precariously from the corner of his mouth. It’s the most embarrassing thing ever and Stiles wasn’t even aware it existed. He makes a mental note to destroy it when Derek isn’t looking.

“I don’t know why I like you,” Stiles tells him as they walk to the Camaro.

“I’ve been questioning my weird attraction to you for years,” Derek says with a dramatic sigh. He waggles his phone, the stupid thing that contains that photo.

“I’m adorable, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Derek pulls him close, hand low on his back and fingers fanned out over his tailbone. “You’re amazing,” he says quietly into Stiles’ ear. “I’m lucky.”

Stiles’ heart picks up its pace. He looks into Derek’s eyes and is overwhelmed by the sudden amount of affection that wafts over him.

He leans in close, so only Derek can hear what he’s about to say.

“You’re not the only one.”


End file.
